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> U , aj 0^:^^^-%^^"^^-^: 



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CHAPTERS 



O N 



CHURCHYARDS. 



JAS. P. WEIGHT, PRINTER, 

18 New Street, near Wall, New York. 



CHAPTERS 



O N 



CHURCHYARDS. 



B Y 



CAROLINE SOUTHEY, 

AUTHORESS OF "SOLITARY HOURS,' 

&C. &G. &C. 



NEW. YORK : 
WILEY AND PUTNAM. 

M DCCCXLir. 



~?R ^^^ ^ 






r\ V 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Churchyards Chap. I. 1 

Chap. II 7 

Chap. Ill 14 

Chap. IV 29 

Chap.V ■. 38 

Chap. VI 50 

Chap. VII 62 

Chap. VIII 74 

Chap. IX 85 

Broad Summerford Chap. X 103 

Chap. XI 116 

Chap. XII 133 

The Haunted Churchyard Chap. XIII 147 

Andrew Cleaves Chap. XIV 164 

Chap. XV 182 

Chap. XVI 195 

Chap. XVII 203 

Chap. XVIII 212 

Chap. XIX 224 

Grave of the Broken Heart. ..Chap. XX 234 

Chap. XXI 246 

Chap. XXII 256 

Chap. XXIII 272 

Chap. XXIV ■ 285 

Chap. XXV 296 

Chap. XXVI 311 



TO 



CAROLINE BOWLES 



Could I look forward to a dietant day 
With hope of building some elaborate lay, 
Then would I wait till worthier strains of mine 
Might bear inscribed thy name, O Caroline ! 
For I would, while my voice is heard on earth. 
Bear witness to thy genius and thy worth. 
But we have both been taught to feel with fear, 
How frail the tenure of existence here, 
What unforseen calamities prevent, 
Alas ! how oft, the best resolved intent ; 
And therefore this poor volume* I address 
To thee, dear friend, and sister Poetess. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

Keswick, 21 Feb., 1829. 



* All for Love, or a Sinner well saved. 



CHAPTERS 



ON 



CHURCHYARDS, 



CHAPTER I. 

Many are the idle tourists who have hahbled of country 
churchyards — many are the able pens which have been 
employed on the same sul)jocts. One in particular, in the 
deli^htlul olio of the " Sketch-book," has traced a picture 
so true to nature, so beautifully simple and pathetic, that 
succeeding essayists might well despair of success in at- 
tempting similar descriptions, wore not the theme, in fact, 
inexhaustible, a source of endless variety, a volume of in- 
structive records, whereof those marked with least incident 
are yet replete with interest for that human being who 
stands alone amongst the quiet graves, musing on the mys- 
tery of his own existence, and on the j)ast and present 
state of those poor relics of mortality which every where 
surround him, mouldering beneath his feet — mingling 
with the common soil — f(;eding the rank churchyard vege- 
tt'ition — once sentient like himself with vigorous life, sub- 
ject to all the tumultuous passions that agitate his own 
heart, j)regnant with a thousand busy sch(;mes, elevated 
and depressed by alternate hopes and f(;ars — liahh;, in a 
word, to all the pains, the pleasures, and " the ills, that flesh 
is heir to." 

The leisurely traveller arriving at a country inn, with 
the intention of tarrying a day, an hour, or a yet shorter 
1 



Hr'' 



^ 



CHURCHYARDS. 



period, in the town or village, generally finds time to saun- 
ter towards the church, and even to loiter about its sur- 
rounding graves, as if his nature (solitary in the midst of 
the living crowd) claimed affinity, and sought communion, 
with the populous dust beneath his feet. 

Such, at least, are the feelings with which I have often 
lingered in the churchyard of a strange place, and about 
the church itself — to which, .indeed, in all places, and in all 
countries, the heart of the Christian pilgrim feels itself at- 
tracted as towards his very home, for there at least, though 
alone amongst a strange people, he is no stranger : It is his 
Father's house. 

I am not sure that I heartily approve the custom — rare in 
this country, but frequent in many others — of planting 
flowers and flowering shrubs about the graves. I am quite 
sure that I hate all the sentimental mummery with which 
the far-famed burying-place of the Pere la Chaise is gar- 
nished out. It is faithfully in keeping with Parisian taste, 
and perfectly in unison with French feeling ; but I should 
* wonder at the profound sympathy with which numbers of 
my own countrymen expatiate on that pleasure-ground of 
Death, if it were still possible to feel surprise at any in- 
stance of degenerate taste and perverted feeling in our tra- 
velled islanders — if it were not, too, the vulgarest thing in 
the world to wonder at any thing. 

The custom, so general in Switzerland, and so common 
in our own principality of Wales, of strewing flowers over 
the graves of departed friends, either on the anniversaries 
of their deaths, or on other memorable days, is touching 
and beautiful. Those frail blossoms scattered over the 
green sod, in their morning freshness, but for a little space 
retain their balmy odours, and their glowing tints, till the 
sun goes down, and the breeze of evening sighs over them, 
and the dews of night fall on their pale beauty, and the 
withered and fading wreath becomes a yet more appropri- 
ate tribute to the silent dust beneath. But rose-trees in full 
bloom, and tall staring lilies, and flaunting lilacs, and pert 
priggish spirafrutexes, are, methinks, ill in harmony with 
that holiness of perfect repose which should pervade the 



CHAPTER I. 



last resting-place of mortality. Even in our own unsenti- 
mental England, I have seen two or three of these flower- 
plot graves. One, in particular, I remember, had been 
planned and planted by a young disconsolate widow, to the 
memory of her deceased partner. The tomb itself was a 
common square erection of freestone, covered over with a 
slab of black marble, on which, under the name, age, dec, 
of the defunct, was engraven an elaborate epitaph, com- 
memorating his many virtues, and pathetically intimating, 
that, at no distant period, the vacant space remaining on 
the same marble would receive the name of " his inconsola- 
ble Eugenia." The tomb was hedged about by a basket- 
work of honey-suckles. A Persian lilac drooped over its 
foot, and, at the head, (substituted for the elegant cypress, 
coy denizen of our ungenial clime,) a young poplar perked 
up its pyramidical form. Divers other shrubs and flower- 
ing plants completed the ring-fence, plentifully interspersed 
with " the fragrant weed, the Frenchman's darling," whose 
perfume, when I visited the spot, was wafted over the 
whole churchyard. It was then the full flush of summer. 
The garden had been planted but a month ; but the lady 
had tended, and propped, and watered those gay strangers 
with her own delicate hands, evermore in the dusk of eve- 
ning returning to her tender task, so that they had taken 
their removal kindly, and grew and flourished as carelessly 
round that cold marble, and in that field of graves, as they 
had done heretofore in their own sheltered nursery. 

A year afterwards — a year almost to a day — I stood once 
more on that same spot, in the same month — " the leafy 
month of June." But — it was leafless there. The young 
poplar still stood sentinel in its former station, but dry, 
withered, and sticky, like an old broom at the mast-head of 
a vessel on sale. The parson's cow, and his half score fat- 
ting wethers, had violated the sacred enclosure, and trodden 
down its flowery basket-work into the very soil. The plants 
and shrubs were nibbled down to miserable stumps, and from 
the sole survivor, the poor straggling lilac, a fat old wad- 
dling ewe had just cropped the last sickly flower-branch, 
and stood staring at rae with a pathetic vacancy of counte- 



4 CHURCHYARDS. 

nance, the half-munched consecrated blossom dangling from 
her sacrilegious jaws. "And is it even so?" I half-articu- 
lated, with a sudden thrill of irrepressible emotion. " Poor 
widowed mourner ! lovely Eugenia ! Art thou already re- 
united to the object of thy faithful affection ? And so late- 
ly ! Not yet on that awaiting space on the cold marble 
have they inscribed thy gentle name. And those fragile 
memorials ! were there none to tend them for thy sake ?" 
Such was my sentimental apostrophe ; and the unwonted 
impulse so far incited me, that I actually pelted away the 
sheep from that last resting-place of faithful love, and 
reared against its side the trailing branches of the neglected 
lilac. Well satisfied with myself for the performance of 
this pious act, I turned from the spot in a mood of calm, 
pleasing melancholy, that, by degrees, (while I yet lingered 
about the churchyard,) resolved itself into a train of poetic 
reverie, and I was already far advanced in a sort of elegiac 
tribute to the memory of that fair being, whose tender na- 
ture had sunk under the stroke " that reft her mutual 
heart," when the horrid interruption of a loud shrill whistle 
startled me from my poetic vision, cruelly disarranging the 
beautiful combination of high-wrought tender, pathetic feel- 
ings, which were flowing naturally into verse, as from the 
very fount of Helicon. Lifting my eyes towards the vul- 
gar cause of this vulgar disturbance, the cow-boy (for it was 
he, "who whistled as he went, for want of thought") nod- 
ded to me his rustic apology for a bow, and passed on to- 
wards the very tomb I had just quitted, near which his milky 
charge, the old brindled cow, still munched on, avaricious 
of the last mouthful. If the clown's obstreperous mirth had 
before broken in on my mood of inspiration, its last delicate 
glow was utterly dispelled by the uncouth vociferation, and 
rude expletives, with which he proceeded to dislodge the 
persevering animal from her rich pasture-ground. Insensi- 
ble alike to his remonstrances, his threats, or his tender per- 
suasion — to his " Whoy ! whoy, old girl ! Whoy, Blossom ! 
Whoy, my lady ! — I say, come up, do ; come up, ye plaguey 
baste !" Blossom continued to munch and ruminate with 
the most imperturbable calmness — ^backing and sideling 



CHAPTER I. O 

away, however, as her pursuer made nearer advances, and 
ever and anon looking up at him with most provoking as- 
surance, as if to calculate how many tufts she might ven- 
ture to pull before he got fairly within reach of her. And 
so, retrograding and manoeuvring, she at last intrenched 
herself behind the identical tombstone beside which I had 
stood so lately in solemn contemplation. Here — the cow- 
boy's patience being completely exhausted — with the inten- 
tion of switching old Blossom from her last stronghold, he 
caught up, and began tearing from the earth, that one long 
straggling stem of lilac which I had endeavoured to replace 
in somewhat of its former position. "Hold! hold!" I 
cried, springing forward with the vehement gesture of im- 
passioned feeling — " have you no respect for the ashes of 
the dead ? Dare you thus violate with sacrilegious hands 
the last sad sanctuary of faithful love ?" The boy stood 
like one petrified, stared at me for a moment with a look 
of indescribable perplexity, then screwing one corner of his 
mouth almost into contact with the corresponding corner of 
one crinkled-up eye — at the same time shoving up his old 
ragged hat, and scratching his curly pate ; and having, as 
I suppose, by the help of that operation, construed my ve- 
hement address into the language of inquiry, he set himself 
very methodically about satisfying my curiosity on every 
point wherever he conceived it possible I might have inter- 
rogated him — taking his cue, with some ingenuity, from the 
one word of my oration which was familiar to his ear — 
" Dead ! Ees, Squoire been dead twelve months last Whit- 
suntide ; and thick be his'n moniment, an' madam was mar- 
ried last week to our measter, an' thick be our cow — " 

Oh, Reader ! 
Is it to be wondered at, that, since that adventure, I 
have ever been disposed to look wth an wwglisteniing, 
and even cynical eye, on those same flower-plot graves] 
Nay, that at sight of them I feel an extraordinary degree of 
hardheartedness stealing over me ? I cannot quit the sub- 
ject without offering a word or two of well-meant advice to 
all disconsolate survivors — widows more especially — as to 
the expediency or non-expediency of indulging this flowery 
1* 



6 CHURCHYARDS. 

grief. Possibly, were I to obey the dictates of my own 
tastes and feelings, I should say, "Be content with a simple 
record- — ^perhaps a scriptural sentence, on a plain headstone. 
Suffer not the inscription to become defaced and illegible, 
nor rank weeds to wave over it ; and smooth be the turf of 
the green hillock ! But if — ^to use a French phrase — 11 
faut afficher ses regrets — if there must be effect, sentimen- 
talities, prettinesses, urns, flowers — not only a few scattered 
blossoms, but a regular planted border, like the garnish of 
a plateau — then, let me beseech you, fair inconsolables ! be 
cautious in your proceedings. Temper with discreet fore- 
sight (if that be possible) the first agonizing burst of sensi- 
bility — Take the counsels of sage experience — temporize 
with the as yet unascertained nature of your own feelings — 
Proclaim not those vegetable vows of eternal fidelity — Re- 
frain, at least, from the trowel and the spade — Dig not — 
plant not — For one year only — for the first year, at least — 
For one year only, I beseech you — sow annuals." 



CHAPTER II. 



CHAPTER II. 

In parts of Warwickshire, and some of the adjacent coun- 
ties, more especially in the churchyards of the larger towns, 
the frightful fashion of black tombstones is almost universal. 
Black tombstones, tall and slim, and lettered in gold, look- 
ing, for all the world, like bolt upright coffin lids. I mar- 
vel the worthy natives do not go a step farther in their 
tasteful system, and coat their churches over with the same 
lugubrious hue, exempting only the brass weathercocks, and 
the gilded figures on the clock faces. The whole scene 
would unquestionably be far more in keeping, and even 
sublime in stupendous ugliness. Some village burying- 
grounds have, however, escaped this barbarous adornment ; 
and in Warwickshire particularly, and within the circuit of 
a few miles round Warwick itself, are very many small, pic- 
turesque, hamlet churches, each surrounded by its lowly 
flock of green graves, and grey headstones ; the church- 
yards, for the most part, separated only by a sunk fence, or 
a slight railing, from the little sheltered grass-plot of a small 
neat rectory, the casements of which generally front the 
long east window of the church. I like this proximity of 
the pastor's dwelling to his Master's house ; nay, of the 
abode of the living to the sanctuary of the dead. It seems 
to me to remove in part the great barrier of separation be- 
tween the two worlds. The end of life, it is true, lies be- 
fore us. The end of this life, with all its host of vanities 
and perturbations ; but immediately from thence we step 
upon the threshold of the holy place, before the gates of 
v/hich no commissioned angel stands with a flaming sword, 
barring our entrance to the tree of life. It would seem to 
me that thus abiding, as it were, under the very shadow of 
the sacred walls, and within sight of man's last earthly 
resting-place, I should feel, as in a charmed circle, more 



'8 CHURCHYARDS. 

secure from the power of evil influences, than if exposed to 
their assaults, on the great open desert of the busy world. 
Therefore, I like this proximity so frequently observable in 
the little hamlets I have described. In one or two instan- 
ces, indeed, I perceived that attempts had been made to ex- 
clude the view of the church and churchyard from the rec- 
tory windows, by planting a few clumps of evergreens, that 
looked as unmeaningly stuck there as heart could wish. 
Miserable taste that ! " but let it pass," as the Courier said 
lately of one of your finest poetical articles, Mr. North. 

I never saw a more perfect picture of beautiful repose, 
than presented itself to me in one of my evening walks last 
summer. One of the few evening walks it was possible to 
enjoy during the nominal reign of that freezing, dripping 
summer. 

I came abruptly upon a small church, and burial ground, 
and rectory, all combined and embowered within a space 
that the eye could take in at one glance, and a pleasant 
glance it was ! 

The west window of the church was lighted up with red 
and glowing effulgence — not with the gorgeous hues of ar- 
tificial colouring, but with the bright banners of the setting 
sun ; and strongly-defined shadows, and mouldings of gold- 
en light, marked out by the rude tracery of the low ivied 
tower, and the heavy stone-work of the deep narrow win- 
dows, and the projections of the low massy buttresses, ir- 
regularly applied, in defiance of all architectural proportion, 
as they had become necessary to the support of the ancient 
edifice. And here and there on the broken slanting of the 
buttresses, and on their projecting ledges, might be seen 
patches of green and yellow moss, so exquisitely bright, 
that methought the jewelry with which Aladdin enchased 
the windows of his enchanted palace, was dull and colour- 
less compared with the vegetable emeralds and topases, 
wherewith " Nature's own sweet and cunning hand" had 
blazoned that old church. And the low headstones also — 
some half-sunk into the churchyard mould — many carved 
out into cherubim, with their trumpeters' cheeks and ex- 
panded wings, or with the awful emblems of death's-heads, 



CHAPTER 11. 9 

cross-bones, and hour-glasses ! The low headstones, with 
their rustic scrolls, " that teach us to live and die," those 
also were edged and tinted with the golden gleam, and it 
stretched in long floods of amber light athwart the soft 
green turf, kissing the nameless hillocks ; and, on one lit- 
tle grave in particular, (it must have been that of an in- 
fant,) methought the departing glory lingered with peculiar 
brightness. Oh ! it was a beautiful churchyard. A stream 
of running water intersected it almost close to the church 
wall. It was clear as crystal, running over grey pebbles, 
with a sound that chimed harmoniously in with the general 
character of the scene, low, soothing, monotonous, dying 
away into a liquid whisper, as the rivulet shrank into a 
shallow and still shallower channel, matted with moss and 
water plants, and closely overhung by the low underwood 
of an adjoining coppice, within whose leafy labyrinth it 
stole at last silently away. It was an unusual and a lovely 
thing to see the grave-stones, and the green hillocks, with 
the very wild-flowers (daisies and buttercups) growing on 
them, reflected in the little rill as it wound among them — 
the reversed objects, and glancing colours, shifting, blend- 
ing, and trembling, in the broken ripple. That and the 
voice of the water! It was " Life in Death." One felt 
that the sleepers below were but gathered for a v/hile into 
their quiet chambers. Nay, their very sleep was not voiceless. 
On the edges of the graves — on the moist margin of the 
stream, grew many tufts of the beautiful " Forget me not." 
Never, sure, was such appropriate station for that meek elo- 
quent flower ! 

Such was the churchyard, from which, at about ten 
yards' distance from the church, a slight low railing, with 
a latch wicket, divided ofl* a patch of the loveliest green 
sward, (yet but a continuation of the churchyard turf,) 
backed with tall elm, and luxuriant evergreens, amongst 
which peeped modestly out the little neat rectory. It was 
constructed of the same rough grey stone with the church. 
Long, low, with far projecting eaves, and casement win- 
dows facing that large west window of the church, still 
flaming with the reflected splendour of the setting sun. 



10 CHURCHYARDS. 

His orb was sinking to rest behind the grove, half-embow- 
ering the small dwelling, which stood in the perfect quiet- 
ness of its own shadow, the dark green masses of jasmine, 
clustering round its porch and windows, scarcely revealing 
(but by their exquisite odour) the pure white blossoms that 
starred "its lovely gloom." 

But their fragrance floated on the gentle breath of even- 
ing, mingled with the perfume of mignonette, and the long- 
fingered marvels of Peru, (the pale daughters of twilight,) 
and innumerable sweet flowers, blooming in their beds of 
rich black mould, close under the lattice windows. These 
were all flung wide, for the evening was still and sultry ; 
and one, opening down to the ground, showed the interior 
of a very small parlour, plainly and modestly furnished, 
but panelled all round with well-filled book-cases. A lady's 
harp stood in one corner, and in another two fine globes, 
and an orrery. Some small flower-baskets, filled with 
roses, were dispersed about the room ; and at a table near 
the window sat a gentleman writing, or rather leaning over 
a writing desk with a pen in his hand, for his eyes were di- 
rected towards the gravel-walk before the window, where 
a lady — an elegant-looking woman, whose plain white robe 
and dark uncovered hair well became the sweet matronly 
expression of her fax^e and figure — was anxiously stretching 
out her encouraging arms to her little daughter, who came 
laughing and tottering towards her on the soft green turf, 
her tiny feet, as they essayed their first independent steps 
in the eventful walk of life, twisting and turning with 
graceful awkwardness, and unsteady pressure, under the 
disproportionate weight of her fair^ fat person. It was a 
sweet, heart-thrilling sound, the joyous, crowing laugh of 
that little creature, when with one last, bold, mighty effort, 
she reached the maternal arms, and was caught up to the 
maternal bosom, and half-devoured with kisses, in an ecsta- 
sy of unspeakable love. 

As if provoked to emulous loudness by that mirthful out- 
cry, and impatient to mingle its clear notes with that young, 
innocent voice, a blackbird, embowered in a tall, neighbour- 
ing bay-tree, poured out forthwith such a flood of full, rich 



CHAPTEE II. 11 

melody, as stilled the baby's laugh, and for a moment ar- 
rested its observant ear. — But for a moment, — The kindred 
natures burst out into full chorus ; — the baby clapped her 
hands, and laughed aloud, and after her fashion, mocked 
the unseen songstress. The bird redoubled her tuneful ef- 
forts ; and still the baby laughed, and still the bird re- 
joined ; and both together raised such a melodious din that 
the echoes of the old church rang again ; and never since 
the contest of the nightingale with her human rival, was 
heard such an emulous conflict of musical skill. 

I could have laughed for company, from my unseen 
lurking-place, within the dark shadow of one of the church 
buttresses. It was altogether such a scene as I shall never 
forget — one from which I could hardly tear myself away. 
Nay, I did not. I stood motionless as a statue in my dark- 
grey niche, till the objects before me became indistinct in 
twihght — till the last slanting sunbeams had withdrawn 
from the highest panes of the church window — till the 
blackbird's song was hushed, and the baby's voice was still, 
and the mother and her nursling had retreated into their 
quiet dwelling, and the evening taper gleamed through the 
fallen white curtain, and still open window. But yet be- 
fore that curtain fell, another act of the beautiful pantomime 
had passed in review before me. The mother, with her in- 
fant in her arms, had seated herself in a low chair within 
the little parlour. She untied the frock-strings, drew off that 
and the second upper garments dexterously, and at inter- 
vals, as the restless frolics of the still unwearied babe af- 
forded opportunity ; and there it was in its little coat and 
stay, the fat white shoulders shrugged up in antic merri- 
ment far above the slackened shoulder-straps. Then the 
mother's hand slipped off one soft red shoe ; and, having 
done so, her lips were pressed, almost, as it seemed, involun- 
tarily, to the little naked foot she still held. The other, as 
if in proud love of liberty, had spurned off to a distance the 
fellow shoe ; and now the darling, disarrayed for its inno- 
cent slumbers, was hushed and quieted, but not yet to rest ; 
the night-dress was still to be put on, and the little crib was 
not there : — not yet to rest, but to the mighty duty already 



12 CHURCHYARDS. 

required of the young Christian ! — And in a moment it was 
hushed — and in a moment the small hands were pressed to- 
gether between the mother's hands, and the sweet serious 
eyes were raised and fixed upon the mother's eyes, (there 
beamed, as yet, the infant's heaven,) and one saw that it 
was lisping out its unconscious prayer — unconscious, not 
surely unaccepted. A kiss from the maternal lips was the 
token of God's approval : — and then she rose, and, gather- 
ing up the scattered garments in the same clasp with the 
half-naked babe, she held it smiling to its father, and one 
saw in the expression of his face, as he upraised it after hav- 
ing imprinted a kiss on that of his child — one saw in it all 
the holy fervour of a father's blessing. 

Then the mother withdrew with her little one — and then 
the curtain fell, — and still I lingered ; for, after the inter- 
val of a few minutes, sweet sounds arrested my departing 
footsteps. A few notes of the harp, a low prelude stole 
sweetly out — a voice still sweeter, mingling its tones with a 
simple, quiet accompaniment, swelled out gradually into a 
strain of sacred harmony, and the words of the evening 
hymn came wafted towards the house of prayer. Then all 
was still in the cottage, and around it ; and the perfect si- 
lence, and the deepening shadows, brought to my mind 
more forcibly the lateness of the hour, and warned me to 
turn my face homewards. So I moved a few steps, and yet 
again I lingered, lingered still ; for the moon was rising, 
and the stars were shining out in the clear, cloudless heaven, 
and the bright reflection of one danced and glittered like a 
liquid fire-fly, on the ripple of the stream, just where it gli- 
ded into a darker, deeper pool, beneath a little rustic foot- 
bridge, which led from the churchyard into a shady green 
lane, communicating with the neighbouring hamlet. 

On that bridge I stopped a minute longer — and yet ano- 
ther and another minute — for I listened to the voice of the 
running water : and methought it was yet more mellifluous, 
more soothing, more eloquent, at that still shadowy hour, 
when only that little star looked down upon it with its 
tremulous beam, than when it danced and glittered in the 



CHAPTER II. 13 

warm glow of sunshine. There are hearts like that stream, 
and they will understand the metaphor. 

The unutterable things I felt and heard in that mysterious 
music ! — Every sense became absorbed in that of hearing ; 
and so spell-bound, I might have stayed on that very spot 
till midnight, nay, till the stars paled before the morning 
beam, if the deep, solemn sound of the old church clock 
had not broken in on my dream of profound abstraction, 
and startled me away with half incredulous surprise, as its 
iron tongue proclaimed, stroke after stroke, the tenth hour 
of the night. 



fi^ 



14 CHURCHYARDS. '.^' 



CHAPTER III. 

Within a short distance of my own habitation stands a 
picturesque old church, remote from any town or hamlet, 
save that village of the dead contained within the precincts 
of its own sequestered burial-ground. It is, however, the 
parish church of a large rural district comprising several 
small hamlets, and numerous farms and cottages, together 
with the scattered residences of the neighbouring gentry ; 
and hither (there being no other place of worship within the 
parish boundary) its population may be seen for the most 
part resorting on Sundays, by various roads, lanes, heath- 
tracks, coppice and field-paths, all diverging from that con- 
secrated centre. The church itself, nearly in the midst of 
a very beautiful churchyard, rich in old carved head-stones, 
and bright verdure roofing the nameless graves — the church 
itself stands on the brow of a finely wooded knoll, command- 
ing a diversified expanse of heath, forest, and cultivated 
land ; and it is a beautiful sight on Sundays, on a fine au- 
tumn Sunday in particular, when the ferns are assuming 
their rich browns, and the forest-trees their exquisite grada- 
tions of colour, such as no limner upon earth can paint — to 
see the people approaching in all directions, now winding 
in long straggling files over the open common, now abrupt- 
ly disappearing amongst its innumerable shrubby declivities, 
and again emerging into sight through the boles of the old 
oaks that encircle the churchyard, standing in their majes- 
tic beauty, like sentinels over the slumbers of the dead. 
From two several quarters across the heath, approach the 
more condensed currents of the living stream ; one, the in- 
habitants of a far distant hamlet, the other, comprising 
the population of two smaller ones within a shorter dis- 
tance of the church. And from many lanes and leafy 
glades, and through many field-paths and stiles, advance 



CHAPTER in. 15 

small groups of neighbours, and families, and social pairs, 
and here and there a solitary aged person, who totters lei- 
surely along, supported by his trusty companion, his stout 
oak staff, not undutifully consigned by his neglectful chil- 
dren to that silent companionship, but willingly loitering 
behind to enjoy the luxury of the aged, the warmth of the 
cheerful sunbeams, the serene beauty of nature, the fruitful 
aspect of the ripening corn-fields, the sound of near and 
mirthful voices, the voices of children and grandchildren, 
and a sense of quiet happiness, partaking surely of that 
peaQC which passeth all understanding. 

And sometimes the venerable Elder comes, accompanied 
by his old faithful helpmate, and then they may be seen 
once more side by side, her arm again locked within his as 
in the days of courtship, not, as then, resting on his more 
vigorous frame, for they have grown old and feeble to- 
gether ; and of the twain, the burden of years lies heaviest 
upon the husband, for his has been the hardest portion of 
labour. In the prime of life, during the full flush of his 
manly vigour, and of her healthful comeliness, he was wont 
to walk sturdily onward, discoursing between-whiles with 
his buxom partner, as she followed with her little ones ; but 
now they are grown up into men and women, dispersed 
about in their several stations, and have themselves young 
ones to care and provide for ; and the old couple are, as it 
were, left to begin the world again, alone in their quiet cot- 
tage. Those two alone together, as when they entered it 
fifty years agone, bridegroom and bride — alone, but not for- 
saken — sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, as each 
can snatch an interval of leisure, or when the labours of 
the day are over, come dropping in under the honeysuckle 
porch, with their hearty greetings ; and many a chubby 
great-grandchild finds its frequent way to Grannum's cot- 
tage ; many a school truant, and many a " toddlin' wee 
thing," whose little hand can hardly reach the latch of the 
low wicket, but whose baby call of "flichterin' noise an' 
glee" gains free and fond admittance. And now they are 
on their way together, the old man and his wife. See ! — 
they have just passed through the last field-gate leading 



16 CHURCHYARDS. 

thitherward to the church. They are on their way together 
towards the house of God, and towards the place where 
they shall soon lie down to rest "in sure and certain hope ;" 
and they lean on one another for mutual support ; and 
would it not seem as they are thus again drawn closer to- 
gether, as they approach nearer to the term of their earthly 
union, as if it were a type and token of an eternal reunion 
in a better and a happier state ? 

I love to gaze upon that venerable pair — ay, even to note 
their decent, antiquated Sabbath raiment. What mortal 
tailor — no modern one to-he-sure — can have carved out that 
coat of indescribable colour — something of orange tawny 
with a reddish tinge ! I suspect it has once been a rich 
Devonshire brown, and perhaps the wedding-suit of the 
squire's grandfather, for it has had a silk lining, and it has 
been trimmed with some sort of lace, gold probably ; and 
there adown each side are still the resplendent rows of em- 
bossed, basket-work, gilt buttons, as large as crown-pieces : 
it must have been the squire's grandfather's wedding-suit. 
And how snowy-white, and how neatly plaited is the single 
edge of his old dame's plain mob cap, surmounted by that 
little black poke bonnet, flounced with rusty lace, and se- 
cured upon her head, not by strings, but by two long black 
corking pins ! That bit of black lace, of real lace, is a 
treasured remnant of what once trimmed her mistress's best 
cloak, when she herself was a blithe and buxom lass, in the 
days of her happy servitude ; and the very cloak itself, once 
a rich mode silk of ample dimensions, now narrowed and 
curtailed, to repair, with many cunning ingraftings, the 
ravages of time — the very cloak itself, with a scrap of the 
same lace frilled round the neck, is still worn on Sundays, 
through the summer and autumn, till early frosts and keen- 
er winds pierce through the thin old silk, and the good 
red-hooded cloak is substituted in its stead. 

They have reached the churchyard wicket ; they have 
passed through it now, and wherefore do they turn aside 
from the path, a few steps beyond it, and stop and look 
down upon that grassy hillock ? It is no recent grave, the 
daisies are thickly matted on its green sod, and the heap 



CHAPTER III. 17 

itself has sunk to a level nearly even with the flat ground. 
The little headstone is half-buried too, but you may read 
thereon the few words, the only ones ever engraven there — 
"William Moss, aged 22:"" Few living now remember 
William Moss. Few at least think of him. The play- 
mates of his childhood, the companions of his youth, his 
brothers and sisters, pass weekly by his lonely grave, and 
none turn aside to look upon it, or to think of him who 
sleeps beneath. But in the hearts of his parents the memo- 
ry of their dead child is as fresh as their affections for their 
living children. He is not dead to them, though eight-and- 
twenty years ago they saw that turf heaped over his coffin — 
over the coffin of their eldest born. He is not dead to them ; 
and every Sabbath-day they tarry a moment by his lowly 
grave, and even now, as they look thereon in silence, does 
not the heart of each parent whisper, as if to the sleeper 
below, " My son ! we shall go to thee, though thou shalt 
not return to us." 

Look down yonder under those arching hawthorns ! — 
what mischief is confederating there amongst those sun- 
burnt, curly-pated boys, clustering together, over the stile 
and about it, like a bunch of swarming bees ? The con- 
fused sound of their voices is like the hum of a swarm too ; 
and they are debating of grave and weighty matters — of 
nuts ripening in thick clusters down in Fairlee Copse — of 
trouts, of prodigious magnitude, leaping by the bridge be- 
low the Mill-head — of apples — and the young heads crowd 
closer together, and the buzzing voices sink to a whisper — 
" of cherry-cheeked apples, hanging just within reach of 
one who should climb upon the roof of the old shed, by the 
corner of the south wall of Squire Mills' orchard." — Ah, 
Squire Mills ! I would not give sixpence for all the apples 
you shall gather off that famous red-streak to-morrow. 

But who comes there across the field towards the stile ? 
A very youthful couple — sweethearts, one should guess, if 
it were not that they were so far asunder, and look as if 
they had not spoken a word to each other this half hour. 
Ah ! they were not so far asunder before they turned out of 
the shady lane into that open field, in sight of all the folk 
3* 



18 CHURCHYARDS. 

gathering into the churchyard, and of those mischievous 
boys, one of whom is brother to that pretty Fanny Payne, 
whose downcast looks, and grave sober walk, so far from the 
young miller, will not save her from running the gauntlet of 
their teasing jokes as she passes — and pass she must, through 
the knot of conspirators. Never mind it, Fanny Payne ! 
put a good face on the matter, and, above all, beware of 
knitting up that fair brow into any thing like a frown, as 
you steal a passing glance at that provoking brother of 
yours ; it will only bring down upon you a thicker shower 
of saucy jests. 

See, see ! that little old man — so old and shrivelled, and 
lean and wizen, and mummy-coloured ; he looks as if he 
had been embalmed and inhumed a century ago, and had 
just now walked out of his swathing-bands, a specimen of 
the year one thousand seven hundred and ten. His peri- 
wig is so well plastered with flour and hog's lard, that its 
large sausage side-curls look as durably consistent, as the 
" eternal buckles cut in Parian stone" that have immortal- 
ized Sir Cloudesley Shovel ; and from behind dangles half- 
way down his back, a long taper pig-tail, wound round with 
black riband, the which, about half-way, is tied into an ele- 
gant rosette. On the top of that same periwig is perched 
a diminutive cocked hat — with such a cock ! — so fierce ! — 
so triangular ! — the little squat .crown so buried within its 
triple fortification ! The like was never seen, save in the shape 
of those coloured sugar comfits called cocked hats, that are 
stuck up in long glasses in the confectioners' windows, to at- 
tract the eyes of poor longing urchins ; and his face is tri- 
angular too, the exact centre of his forehead, where it 
meets the periwig, being the apex thereof; his nose is tri- 
angular ; his little red eyes are triangular ; his person is 
altogether triangular, from the sloping narrow shoulders, to 
where it widens out, corresponding with the broad, square, 
fantail flaps of that green velveteen coat. He is a walking 
triangle ! and he carries his cane behind him, holding it with 
both hands wide apart, exactly parallel with the square line 
of his coat flaps. See ! he is bustling up to join that small 
group of substantial farmers, amongst whom he is evidently 



CHAPTER III. 19 

a person of no small consequence ; they think him, " as one 
should say, Sir Oracle," for he knows every fluctuation of 
stocks to a fraction ; criticises the minister's discourses ; 
expounds the prophecies ; explains all about the millennium, 
and the number of the beast ; foretells changes of weather ; 
knows something of physic and surgery ; gives charms for 
the ague and rheumatiz ; makes ink, mends pens, and 
writes a wonderful fine hand, with such flourishes, that, 
without taking his pen oflTthe paper, he can represent the fig- 
ures of Adam and Eve, in the involutions composing the 
initial capitals of their names ! He is " Sir Oracle ;" and 
not the less so, because people do not exactly know what 
he has been, and where he comes from. Some think he 
has been a schoolmaster ; others conjecture that he has 
been a doctor of some sort, or a schemer in mechanics, about 
which he talks very scientifically ; or in the funds ; or in 
some foreign commercial concern ; for he has certainly 
lived long in foreign parts, and is often heard talking to his 
old grey parrot in some outlandish tongue, and the bird 
seems to understand it well, and replies in the same 
language. 

There are not wanting some who suspect that he has 
not been always in his perfect mind ; but however that 
may be, he is perfectly harmless now, and has conducted 
himself unexceptionably ever since he came to settle in the 
village of Downe, ten years ago. In all that time he has 
never been known to receive within his dwelling any for- 
mer friend or kinsman, and he has never stirred beyond the 
boundary of the parish, but to go once a-year to the bank- 
er's in the nearest town, to receive a small sum of money, 
for which he draws on a mercantile house in Lombard 
Street. He boards and lodges with a widow who has a 
neat little cottage in the village, and he cultivates the finest 
polyanthuses and auriculas in the flower-plot, of which she 
has yielded up the management to him, that were ever beheld 
in that neighbourhood. He is very fond of flowers, and 
dumb animals, and children ; and all the children in the 
place love him, and the old white Pomeranian dog, blind of 
one eye, who follows his master every where except to 



20 CHURCHYARDS. 

church. Now, you know as much as I or any one know3 
of Master Jacob Marks, more, perhaps, than was worth 
telling, but I could not leave such an original subject half- 
sketched. 

Behold that jolly -looking farmer and his family approach- 
ing up the green lane that leads from their habitation, that 
old substantial-looking farm-house yonder, half embowered 
in its guardian elms. 

They are a portly couple, the farmer and his wife ! He 
a hale, florid, fine-looking man, on whose broad open brow 
time has scarcely imprinted a furrow, though it has changed 
to silky whiteness the raven hue of those locks once so 
thickly clustered about his temples. There is a conscious- 
ness of wealth and prosperity, and of rural consequence, in 
his general aspect and deportment ; but if he loves the 
good things of this world, and prides himself in possessing 
them, there is nothing in the expression of his countenance 
that bespeaks a selfish and narrow heart, or a covetous dis- 
position. He looks willing to distribute of his abundance ; 
and greetings of cordial good will, on both sides, are ex- 
changed between the farmer and such of his labourers as 
fall into the same path in their way to the church. Arm- 
in-arm with her spouse marches his portly help-mate, fat, 
florid, and, like himself, " redolent" of the good things of 
this world, corn, and wine, and oil, that sustaineth the heart 
of man, and maketh him of a cheerful countenance. 

A comely and a stately dame is the lady of Farmer 
Buckwheat, when, as now, she paces by his side, resplen- 
dent in her Sunday-going garb of ample and substantial 
materials, and all of the very best that can be bought for 
money. One can calculate the profits of the dairy and the 
bee-hives, the pin-money of the farmer's lady — not to men- 
tion his weightier accumulations — by the richness of that 
black satin cloak and bonnet, full trimmed with real lace, 
and by the multitudinous plaits of that respectable-looking 
snuff'-coloured silk gown and coat. 

It is true her old fashioned prejudices would have been in 
favour of a large double silk handkerchief, pinned neatly 
down, and a flowered chintz gown, drawn up through the 



CHAPTER III. 21 

pocket-holes over a white quilted petticoat ; but the worthy 
dame has two fair daughters, and they have been brought 
up at a boarding-school ; and they have half-coaxed, half- 
teased their Ma'a out of such antiquated vulgar tastes, 
though even those pertinacious reformists have been obliged 
to concede the point of a peHsse in favour of a satin cloak. 
But when they have conceded one point,, they have gained 
at least two. See the old lady's short sleeves, neatly frilled 
just below the elbow, are elongated down to the wrists, and 
finished there by a fashionable cuff, out of which protrudes 
the red, fat, fubsy hand, with short dumpy fingers webbed 
between, broad, and turning up at the tips, looking as if 
they had been created on purpose to knead dough, press 
curds, and pat up butter ; and lo ! on the forefinger of the 
right hand a great garnet ring set in silver, massy enough 
for the edge of a soup tureen. It is an heirloom from 
some great-grandmother, who was somehow related to 
somebody who was first cousin to a " Barrow-knight,^' and 
was herself so very rich a lady — and so the misses have 
rummaged it out, and forced it down upon their Ma'a's poor 
dear fat finger, which sticks out as stiffly from the sensa- 
tion of that unwonted compression, as if it were tied up 
and poulticed for a whitlow ; and the poor lady, in spite 
of all hints and remonstrances, will walk with her gloves 
dangling in her hands, instead of on them ; and, altogether, 
the short pillowy arms cased up in those tight cerements, 
with both the hands and all the fingers spread out as if in 
act to swim, look, for all the world, like the fins of a turtle, 
or the flaps of a frightened gosling. Poor worthy dame ! 
but a sense of conscious grandeur supports her under the 
infliction of this fashionable penance. And then come the 
Misses Buckwheat, mincing delicately in the wake of their 
Pa'a and Ma'a, with artificial flowers in their Leghorn bon- 
nets, sky-blue spencers, fawn-coloured boots, flounces up to 
their knees, a pink parasol in one hand, and a pocket-hand- 
kerchief dangling from the other ; not neatly folded and 
carried with the handsome prayer-book, in the pretty fash- 
ion that so well becomes that fair modest girl, their neigh- 
bour's daughter, whose profound ignorance of fashionable 



22 CHURCHYARDS. 

dress and manners is looked on as quite pitiable, "poor 
thing !" by the Misses Buckwheat. For what are iliey in- 
tended, I wonder ! For farmers' wives ? To strain milk, 
churn butter, fat pigs, feed poultry, weigh out cheeses, and 
cure bacon hogs 1 Good-lack ! They paint landscapes ! 
and play on the piano ! and dance quadrilles ! and make 
bead-purses ! and. keep albums ! and doat on Moore's Melo- 
dies and Lord Byron's Poems ! They are to be " tutor- 
esses," or companions, or — something or other very genteel 
— ladies, for certain, any way. So they have settled them- 
selves, and so the weak doating mother fondly anticipates, 
though the father talks as yet only of their prosperous es- 
tablishment, (all classes talk of establishing young ladies 
now,) as the wives of wealthy graziers, or substantial yeo- 
men, or farmers, or thriving tradesmen. But he drinks his 
port wine, and follows the hounds. And then, bringing up 
the rear of the family procession, lounges on its future repre- 
sentative, its sole son and heir. And he is a smart buck, 
far too genteel to walk arm-in-arm with his sisters ; so he 
saunters behind, cutting off the innocent heads of the dang- 
ling brier-roses, and the tender hazel-shoots, with that little 
jemmy switch, wherewith ever and anon he flaps the long- 
looped sides of his yellow-topped boots ; and his white hat 
is set knowingly on one side, and he wears a coloured silk 
handkerchief knotted closely round his throat, and fastened 
down to the shirt bosom by a shining brooch — and waist- 
coat of three colours, pink, blue, and buff — a grass green 
coat, with black velvet collar — and on his little finger (the 
wash leather glove is off on that hand) a Belcher ririg as 
thick as the coil of a ship's cable. Well done, young Hope- 
ful ! That was a clever aim ! There goes a whole shower 
of hazel-tops. What a pity your shearing ingenuity is not 
as active among the tiiistles in your father's fields. The 
family has reached the church-gate — they are entering 
now — and the farmer, as he passes through, vouchsafes a 
patronising nod, and a good-humoured word or two to that 
poor widow and her daughter who stand aside hold- 
ing the gate open for him, and dropping humble curtsies to 
every member of the family. The farmer gives them now 



CHAPTER III. 23 

and then a few days' work — hoeing, weeding, or stoning, or 
at hay and harvest time, on his broad acres ; but his daugh- 
ters wonder " Pa'a should demean himself so far as to nod 
familiarly to such poor objects." They draw up their chins, 
jflirt their handkerchiefs, and pass on as stiff as pokers. 
And last, in stragg'les Master Timothy. — (He hates that 
name, by-the-by, and wishes his sponsors had favoured him 
with one that might have shortened buckishly into Frank or 
Tom, or — Tim won't do, and his sisters scout the barbarous 
appellation, and have re-christened him " Alonzo." They 
would fain have bestowed on him the name of Madame 
Cotton's interesting Saracen, Malek Adhel, but it was im- 
possible to teach their mamma the proper pronunciation of 
that word, which she persisted in calling " Molly Coddle") 
— In straggles Timothy Alonzo, but he is even more conde- 
scending than his papa, and bestows a very tenderly expres- 
sive glance at the widow's daughter as she drops her eyes, 
with her last and lowest curtsy to him. 

Well, they are gone by, thank Heaven ! and the poor 
woman and her child follow at humble distance to their 
Master's house. They will not always be abased there. 
The widow Maythorn and her daughter Rachel are a very 
poor, but a very happy pair. Her daughter is sickly and 
delicate ; and folks say, in our country phrase, " hardly so 
sharp as she should be ;" but she has sense enough to be a 
dutiful child — to suffer meekly — to hope humbly — to believe 
steadfastly. What profiteth other knowledge ? The mo- 
ther and daughter possess a little cottage, a bit of garden, '^ 
and a cow that picks its scanty pasture on the waste. 
They work hard — they want often — but they contrive to * 
live, and are content. The widow Maythorn and her 
daughter are a happy pair ! 

Yonder, winding slowly up that shady green lane, come 
the inmates of the parish workhouse — the in-door poor. 
First, the master, a respectable-looking middle-aged man, 
with somewhat of pompous sternness in his deportment ; 
but there is nothing hard or cruel in the expression of his 
eye, as ever and anon he looks back along the line of pau- 
pers, of all ages and sexes, so decently marshalled under 



24 CHURCHYARDS. 

his command. On the contrary, he hangs back to speak a 
few words of hearty encouragement to that very old man 
who totters along so feebly on his crutches, under the bur- 
den of his fourscore years of toil and trouble, and the in- 
creasing load of his bodily infirmities. And the grateful 
look of old Matthew, and his cheerful "-Lord love ye, mas- 
ter !" are elegant vouchers that, for once, the man " armed 
with a little brief authority" abuseth not his trust. The 
mistress has less dignity, but more severity of aspect, as her 
sharp, quick glance runs back, often and suspiciously, along 
the line of females ; and she calls them peremptorily to or- 
der if their voices are heard too voluble ; and she rebukes 
the straggling children, and denounces exemplary vengeance 
against those two detected urchins in particular — detected 
in the misdemeanour of skulking behind to pull those tempt- 
ing clusters of almost ripe nuts that peep so invitingly from 
the high hazel hedge. But her denunciations are not lis- 
tened to, it should appear, with any very vehement demon- 
strations of dread. I believe, o' my conscience, " her bark 
is waur than her bite ;" and that half her terrors lie in that 
long bowsprit nose, that looks as if it were sharpened to a 
point by the cross fire of those little red gimlet eyes, and in 
the sound of a voice shrill, cracked, and squeaking, like the 
tone of a penny trumpet. Very neat, decent, and respect- 
able is the appearance of the long line of parish poor. They 
are all comfortably clad in whole and clean apparel ; and 
even that poor idiot who brings up the rear, straggling in 
and out of the file of children — (who can restrain his vaga- 
ries 1) — Even he is clothed in good grey woollen, and a 
whole new hat, in lieu of the scarlet tatters, and old bat- 
tered soldier's helmet, with its ragged red and white feather, 
in which he delights to decorate his poor little deformed fi- 
gure on week-days, calling himself corporal, captain, gen- 
eral, or drum-major, as the whim of the moment rules his 
wayward fancy — each grade, as he assumes it, the most 
honourable in his estimation. They are gone by, all of 
them — men, women, and children — the two culprits still 
lagging in the rear. I wager they have another pluck at 
the forbidden fruit or thoir way back to the workhouse. 



CHAPTER III* 25 

More children still !— marshalled in double files ! Boys 
and girls, three scores at least ; each sex uniformly clad ; 
the master and mistress leading the van of their respective 
divisions. That is the subscription charity-school, and the 
children have just donned their new clothing ; and do but 
see, poor urchins ! what hogs in armour some of them look 
like ! Good clothing it is — warm and decent, and of dura- 
ble material ; thick grey frieze for the boys, with dark blue 
worsted hose, and black beaver hats — hlack hats, at least : 
and for the girls, grogram gowns, and wild-boar petticoats ; 
(reader, did you ever hear of such materials ?) and stiff 
enough they are. Heaven knows ; and as the things are all 
sent down ready-made from a London warehouse, they are 
of necessity pretty much of the same size, as having the 
better chance to jit, or, at all events, to do for all. So you 
shall see a poor little boy muffled up in a coat that looks 
like his grandfather's great-coat, the flaps of which dangle 
almost to the ground ; the collar is turned half-way down 
his back, or it would mount up so high as to bury his head, 
which is indeed already buried under a hat, the brim of 
which rests upon his shoulders and the bridge of his nose ; 
and when he hangs down his arms, you cannot see so much 
as the tip of his fingers peeping from within those long enor- 
mous sleeves. To complete the picture of comfort, he skufFs 
along in a pair of shoes, the stiff upper leathers of which 
reach up to the middle of his shins, and the poor little legs 
stick in them like two chumpers in a couple of butter 
churns. Altogether, he looks like a dangling scarecrow 
set up in a corn-field. 

But, then, the little muffled man presents a fine contrast 
to his alongside mate. His long-tailed coat makes him a 
short jacket. His arms are squeezed through the sleeves 
to-be-sure, but then they stick out like wooden pins on 
either side, with excessive tightness ; and there, see ! dan- 
gles half-a-yard of red lean wrist, and all the blood in his 
body seems forced down into those great, blue, bony 
knuckles. It was a good hearty thump, certes, that jammed 
down that stiff skimming-dish of a hat, even to where it 
now reaches on his unlucky pate. The great, flat, un- 
3 



26 CHURCHYARDS. 

hemmed red ears stick out from under it like two red-cab- 
bage leaves ; and for his shoes ! — the blacksmith would 
have shod him better, and have inflicted less pain in the 
operation ; for, see ! his feet are doubled up in them, into 
the form of hoofs, and he hobbles along, poor knave ! like a 
cat in pattens, or as if the smooth green lane were paved 
with red-hot flints. And the girls are not much better ofl". 
Some draggle long trains after them, and have waists down 
to their hips ; others are wellnigh kilted ; and that long 
lanky girl there, Jenny Andrews, would reveal far more 
than a decent proportion of those heron legs of hers, were 
it not that she has ingeniously contrived to tie the wild- 
boar petticoat a reef below the grogram gown, thereby sup- 
plying the deficiencies of the latter. — Well, they are all 
new clothed, however, spick and span, and all very proud 
of being so, — even he of the crumpt-up toes, who will 
soon poke his way through those leathern fetters, and in 
the mean time limps along in contented misery. " New 
clothes !" thinks he. — " Good clothes ! handsome clothes !" 
thinks Madam Buckwheat. — " Fine clothes ! fashionable 
clothes !" think the Misses Buckwheat. — "Brave clothes! 
pretty clothes !" thinks the poor idiot, when Monday comes, 
and he is allowed to resume his old scarlet tatters. All are 
puffed up with the self-same species of conceit, variously 
modified, and so are many greater and many finer folks 
than they — ay, and many wiser ones too — many more 
talented. Witness Goldsmith, in his peach-blossom coat ; 
and Johnson, (who ridiculed the poor poet's puerile vanity,) 
in his gala suit of fine brown broad-cloth. One spread his 
tail like a peacock, and strutted about to show off* its gaudy 
colours ; the other, arrayed like the bird of wisdom, in grave 
and sombre plumage, was equally proud of the dignity it 
conferred, and oraculously opined that a gentleman WcLS 
twice a gentleman in a full dress suit. Vanity ! vanity ! 
thou universal leaven ! from what human heart art thou 
absolutely excluded ? 

Hark ! the trampling of horses, and the sound of wheels. 
The Squire's carriage sweeps round the corner of the 
churchyard. He and his family arrive thus early, that the 



CHAPTER III. 27 

horses may be stabled in that long low shed, appropriated 
for the purpose, and the servants ready to enter the church 
at the same time with their master, and to partake with him 
of the benefit and comfort of the confession and absolution. 
Some people seem to consider those parts of the service as 
a mere prelude — a sort of overture, as hackneyed, and about 
as solemn, as that to Lodoiska ; and if they reach their pews 
by the time they are half over, it is well. As for the ser- 
vants, what can it signify to them ? — -There alights another 
carriage load — and another — ^and another — and the comers 
in a car, and in two tax-carts, and on sundry steeds ; and 
there the patrician party is congregating together round the 
great east door ; and there stands the clerk, with hat in 
hand, peering down the vicarage lane, under the penthouse 
of his other shading hand, for the first glimpse of the minis- 
ter. Now, he descries the white face of the old roan mare. 
Another look, to-be-sure ; — it is indeed that sober-footed 
palfrey, bearing her reverend burden. And then he turns 
hastily into the belfry ; and immediately the cracked 
chimes subside into a few quick single strokes, announcing 
the near approach of the clergyman, and the speedy com- 
mencement of divine service. That fine ruddy lad, with 
the white smock-frock, has been immovably posted at the 
churchyard wicket for the last half-hour. His patience 
will accomplish its purpose. He is the first to start for- 
ward — hat in hand, and smoothing down his glossy yel- 
low hair — to receive the bridle of the old man, which 
the vicar resigns into the hand of careful Will, with the 
usual charges, and a smile, and a few words of kind 
notice. 

The minister has passed into the vestry ; the clerk has 
followed him. A few more strokes and the bell ceases ; a 
few more seconds and the churchyard is left to its lonely 
silence, and to its quiet occupants ; and the living are 
gathered together, within those sacred walls, to hear the 
words of eternal life, on the surety whereof, the sleepers 
without — with whom they must one day lie down in the 
dust — have been committed to their narrow beds, " in sure 
and certain hope." 



28 CHURCHYARDS. 

But my discourse purported to be of Churchyards only, 
and I have rambled from my text. No matter ; I am 
come, as we all must, to the churchyard at last, and my 
next chapter shall be of "graves, and stones, and epi- 
taphs." 



i 



CHAPTER IV. 29 



CHAPTER IV. 

My next chapter, I think, was to be of " graves, and stones, 
and epitaphs." Come, then, to the churchyard with me, 
whoever shrinketh not from thoughtful inspection of those 
eloquent sermon books. Come to that same churchyard 
where lately we saw the assembled congregation — the aged 
and the young — the proud and the lowly — the rich and poor 
collecting together on the Sabbath morning to worship their 
Creator within those sacred walls. Many months since 
then have slipped away ; the green leaves have withered, 
and dropped, and decayed, and the bare branches have been 
hung with icicles, and bent down under the weight of win- 
ter snows ; and again they have budded and put forth their 
tender shoots, and the thick foliage of summer has cast its 
broad shadow on the dark green sod ; and again " decay's 
effacing fingers" are at work, and the yellow tints of autumn 
are gaining on the rich verdure of summer. And man ! 
— the ephemeron ! who perisheth as the flower of the field 
— whose time on earth is like the shadow that departeth — 
how hath it fared with him during the revolving seasons ? 
How many have gone to their long home, and their place 
on earth knoweth them no more ! How many of those 
who, when last we looked upon this scene, stood here 
among their friends and neighbours, full of life and health, 
and the anticipation of long years to come, full of schemes, 
and hopes, and expectations, and restless thoughts, and 
cumbersome cares, and troubles, and pleasures of this life ! 
How many of these are since returned to this spot ! — Yea 
— but to tarry here — to occupy the house appointed for all 
living — to lie down and sleep, and take their rest, undis- 
turbed by winter winds or summer storms, unawakened by 
the chime of the church-bells when they summon hither the 
Sabbath congregation, or by the voices of those they loved 
3* 



30 CHURCHYARDSj 

in life, who pass by their lowly graves, already, perhaps, 
forgetful of " the form beloved," so recently deposited 
there ! 

" So music past is obsolete — 
And yet 'twas sweet ! 'twas passing sweet ! 
But now 'tis gone away." 

This is again a Sabbath-day — the evening of an autumnal 
Sabbath ; morning and afternoon divine service has been 
performed within those walls, and now Nature is offering 
up her own pure homage. The hymns of her winged choris- 
ters — the incense of her flowery censer — the flames of her 
great altar, that glorious setting sun. See ! how his de- 
parting beams steal athwart the churchyard between those 
old oaks, whose stately trunks, half defined in the blackness 
of their own shadow, half gilded by the passing brightness, 
prop that broad canopy of " many twinkling leaves" now 
glittering underneath with amber light ; while above, the 
dense mass of foliage, towering in heavy grandeur, stands 
out in bold and bleak relief against the golden glory of the 
western horizon. How magnificent that antique colonnade ! 
How grand that massy superstructure ! Lo ! the work of 
the great Architect, which might well put to shame the 
puny efforts of his creatures and the frail structures they 
erect to his glory, were it not that He whom the heaven of 
heavens cannot contain, hath vouchsafed to promise, that 
where a few faithful hearts are gathered together to wor- 
ship him in spirit and in truth, He will be there in the midst 
of them, even in their perishable temples. Therefore, 
though yon majestic oaks overtop with their proud shadow 
the low walls, and even the ivied tower of that rustic 
church, yet are they but a fitting portico, an " outer porch," 
to the sanctuary more especially hallowed by his presence. 
Neither is their spreading arch too magnificent a canopy 
for those obscure graves so peacefully ranged beneath it. 
Many a sincere and humble Christian rests from his labours 
beneath those green hillocks. Many a faithful believer, 
who has drunk without a murmur his earthly cup of bitter- 
ness, because it was awarded to him by the divine will, and 



CHAPTER IV. , 31 

because, trusting in the merits of his Redeemer, he cast 
down his burden at his feet, looking forward through his pro- 
mises to be a partaker of the glory which shall be r.evealed 
hereafter. Many a one, " to fortune and to fame unknown," 
who walked thus humbly with his God, sleeps unrecorded in 
the majestic shadow of those venerable trees. But when those 
giants of the earth shall have stood their appointed season 
— shall have lived their hfe of centuries — them also the un- 
sparing hand shall smite, and they too shall lie prostrate in 
the dust, and for their sapless trunks there shall be no re- 
novation ; while the human grain, now hidden beneath their 
roots, retains, even in corruption, the principles of immor- 
tality, and shall, in the fulness of time, spring up to life 
eternal. 

What histories — not of great actions, or of proud for- 
tunes, or of splendid attainments, but of the human heart — 
that inexhaustible volume ! — might be told over these 
graves, by one who should have known their quiet tenants, 
and been a keen and feeling observer of their infinitely va- 
rying natures ! nay, by one who should relate, from his 
own remembrance, even the more ol)vious circumstances of 
their obscure lives ! What tales of love, and hope, and dis- 
appointment, and struggling care, and unmerited contume- 
ly and uncomplaining patience, and untold suffering, and 
broken hearts, might be extracted from this cold earth we 
tread on ! What heartwrung tears have been showered 
down upon these quiet graves ! What groans, and sighs, 
and sobs of uncontrollable grief, have burst out in this spot 
from the bosoms of those who have stood even here, on the 
brink of the fresh-opened grave, while the coffin was low- 
ered into it, and the grating cords were withdrawn, and the 
first spadeful of earth rattled on the lid, and the solemn 
words- were uttered — "Dust to dust!" And where are 
those mourners now, and how doth it fare with them ? — 
Here ! they are here ! And it fareth well with them, for 
their troubles are over, and they sleep in peace amongst 
their friends and kindred ; and other mourners have wept 
beside their graves, and those in turn shall be brought back 
here, to mingle their dust with that of foregone generations. 



32 CHURCHYARDS. 

Even the living multitude assembled here this day twelve- 
months, how many, in the short interval between that and 
the present time, have taken up their rest within these con- 
secrated precincts ! And already, over the graves of many, 
the green sods have again united in velvet smoothness. 
Here, beside that of William Moss, in a fresher and higher 
hillock, to which his headstone likewise serves for a memo- 
rial ; and underneath his name, there are engraven on it — 
yes— two other names. The aged parents and the blooming 
son at last repose together ; and what matters now that the 
former went down to the grave by the slow and gradual de- 
scent of good old age, and that the latter was cut off in the 
prime and vigour of his manhood ? If each performed faith- 
fully the task allotted to him, then was his time on earth suf- 
ficient ; and, after the brief separation of a few years, they 
arc reunited in eternity. But here — behold a magnificent 
contrast to that poor plain stone ! Here stands a fine tall 
free-stone, the top of which is ornamented in basso-relievo, 
with a squat white urn swaddled up in ponderous drapery, over 
which droops a gilt weeping willow ; it looks like a sprig of 
samphire, the whole set off by a blue ground, encircled by 
a couple of goose-wings. Oh ! no — ^I cry the sculptor mer- 
cy — they are the pinions of a pair of cherubim. There 
are the little trumpeters' cheeks puffing out from under 
them ; and the obituary is engraven on a black ground in 
grand gold letters ; and it records — Ah ! Madam Buck- 
wheat — is it come to this ? Is all that majesty of port laid 
low 1 That fair exuberance of well-fed flesh ? That broad 
expanse of comely red and white, " by Nature's sweet and 
cunning hand laid on." Doth all this mingle with the 
common earth ? That goodly person clad in rustling silks ! 
is it shrunken within the scanty folds of the shroud, and the 
narrow limits of a cold brick grave ! What ! in the very 
flush of worldly prosperity — when the farmer's granaries 
were overflowing with all manner of store — when your 
dairy had yielded double produce — when the stock of cheeses 
was unprecedented — when your favourite Norman had pre- 
sented you with twin calves — when you had reared three 
broods of milkwhite turkeys, and the China sow had littered 



CHAPTER IV. 33 

thirteen pigs ! — just as the brindled heifer of that famous 
cross was coming into milk — and just as the new barn was 
built, and the parish rates were lowered, and the mulberry- 
tree was beginning to bear — and just as you had brought 
yourself to feel at home in your long sleeves, and unfet- 
tered by the great garnet ring, and to wear gloves when 
you were out visiting ; and, to crown all, just as your 
youngest hope — your favourite daughter — had made a splen- 
did conquest of a real gentleman — one who had come down 
from Lunnon in his own shay, and talked about " Hast- 
ley's," and "the Hoppera," and " Wauxhall," and the " Vild 
Beasts," and "Vaterloo Bridge," and all them there things, 
and was to install Betsey (the old lady always forgot to 
say Eliza) lady and mistress of a beautiful "ouse" in Fleet 
Street. Oh ! at such a time to be torn from " Life and 
all the joys it yields!" Ah, Madam Buckwheat! is it so 
indeed ? Alas ! too true — 

" A heap of dust is all remains of thee, 
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be," 

Take care ! — never tread upon a grave — What ! you saw 
it not, that scarce distinguishable hillock, overshadowed by 
its elevated neighbour 1 It is, however, recently thrown 
up, but hastily and carelessly, and has of late been trodden 
down almost to a surface, by the workmen employed in 
erecting that gilded " tribute of affection" to the memory 
of the farmer's deceased spouse. A few more weeks and 
it will be quite level with the even sod, and the village chil- 
dren will gambol over it unmindful of their old friend, 
whom yet they followed to that grave with innocent re- 
gretful tears, the only tears that were shed for the poor out- 
cast of reason. The parish pauper sleeps in that grave — 
the workhouse idiot. He for whom no heart was tenderly 
interested ; for he had long, long outlived the poor parents 
to whom their only child, their harmless Johnny, (for they 
thought him not an idiot,) was an object of the fondest af- 
fection. There were none to take to him when they were 
gone, so the workhouse afforded him refuge, and sustenance, 



34 CHURCHYARDS. 

and humane treatment ; and his long life — for it was ex- 
tended nearly to the term of seventy years — was not, on 
the whole, joyless or forsaken. His intellect was darkened 
and distorted ; but not so as to render him an object of dis- 
gust or terror, or to incapacitate him from performing many 
tasks of trifling utility. He even exercised a sort of rude 
ingenuity in many little rustic handicrafts. He wove rush 
baskets and mats, and neatly and strongly wove them ; and 
of the refuse straw he plaited coarse hats, such as are worn 
by pjoughboys ; and he could make wicker cages for black- 
birds and magpies, and mouse-traps, and rabbit-hutches ; 
and he had a pretty notion of knitting too, only that he 
could never be brought to sit still long enough to make any 
great proficiency in that way. But he was useful, besides, 
in many offices of household drudgery ; and though his 
kind master never suffered poor Johnny to be "put upon," 
he had many employers, and, as far as his simple wits en- 
abled him to comprehend their several wills, he was content 
to fulfil them. So he was sent to fetch water, and to watch 
that the coppers did not boil over, and to feed the fire, and 
blow the bellows, and sift the cinders, and to scrape carrots 
and potatoes, and to shell beans, and to sweep the floor, (but 
then he would always waste time in making waves and zig- 
zags on the sand,) and to rock the cradles ; and that office 
he seemed to take peculiar delight in, and would even pre- 
tend to hush the babies, as he had seen practised by their 
mothers, with a sort of droning hum which he called sing- 
ing. But besides all these, and other tasks innumerable, 
more extended trust was committed to him, and he was 
never known but to discharge it faithfully. He was al- 
lowed (in exception of those rules of the house imperative 
on its sane inmates) to wander out whole days, having the 
charge of a few cows or pigs, and for a trifling remunera- 
tion, which he brought regularly home to his master, who 
expended it for him with judicious kindness, in the purchase 
of such simple luxuries as the poor idiot dehghted in — a 
little snuff* and tobacco, or the occasional treat of a little 
coarse tea and brown sugar. 

Then was old Johnny in his glory, when, seated on some 



CHAPTER IV. 35 

sunny roadside bank, or nestling among the fern leaves in 
some bosky dingle, within ken of his horned or grunting 
charge, of which he never lost sight, he had collected about 
him a little cluster of idle urchins, with whom he would vie 
in dexterity in threading daisy necklaces, or sticking the 
little white flowers on a leafless thorn branch, or in tying 
up cowslip balls, or in making whistles, or arrow-heads of 
hollow elder stalks ; or in weaving high conical caps of 
green rushes ; and then was Caesar in his element, for then 
would he arm with those proud helmets the heads of his 
childish mates, and marshal them (nothing loath) in mili- 
tary order, each shouldering a stick, his supposed musket ; 
and, flourishing his wooden sword, and taking the command 
of his new levies, he marched up and down before the line 
of ragged rogues, gobbling like a turkey-cock, with swelling 
pride, in all the martial magnificence of his old cocked-hat 
and feathers, and of his scarlet tatters with their tarnished 
lace. 

But sometimes was he suddenly cast down from that pin- 
nacle of earthly grandeur by the malicious wantonness of 
an unlucky boy, who would slyly breathe out a few notes 
from an old flute, well anticipating their effect on poor 
Johnny. Rude as were those notes, they "entered into his 
soul." In a moment his proud step was arrested ; his au- 
thoritative, uplifted hand fell nerveless by his side ; his 
erect head dropped, and large tears rolled down his aged 
face ; and at last sobs — deep, heavy, convulsive sobs ! — 
burst from the bosom of the poor idiot, and then even his 
mischievous tormentor almost wept to see the pain he had 
inflicted. Yes, such was the power of music, of its rudest, 
simplest tones, over some spring of sensibility, deep hidden 
in the benighted soul of that harmless creature ; and he had 
apparently no control over the tempestuous ebullition of its 
excited vehemence, except at church during the time of 
divine service. 

There, while the psalm was being sung, he was still, and 
profoundly silent. But when others rose up from the form 
beside him, he sunk still lower in his sitting posture, and 
cowering down, bent forward his head upon his knees, 



36 CHURCHYARDS. 

hiding his face there within the fold of his crossed arms, and 
no sound or sob escaped him, but his poor frame trembled 
universally ; and when the singing was over, and he looked 
up again, the thin grey hair on his wrinkled forehead was 
wet with perspiration. Now, let the clarion sound, or the 
sweet hautboy pour out its melodious fulness, or the thrilling 
flute discourse, or the solemn organ roll over his grave its 
deep and mighty volume, and he will sleep on undisturbed 
— ay, till the call of the last trumpet shall awaken hind, and 
the mystery of his earthly existence shall be unfolded, and 
the soul, emerging from its long eclipse, shall shine out in 
the light of immortality. At that day of solemn reckoning, 
how many, whose brilliant talents and luminous intellect 
have blazed out with meteoric splendour not to enlighten, 
but to dazzle and mislead, and bewilder the minds of their 
fellow-mortals in the mazes of inextricable error — how 
many of those who have so miserably abused the great 
trust reposed in them, shall be fain to exchange places with 
that unoffending innocent, crying out, in the agony of their 
despair, " to the mountains, fall on us, and to the hills, 
cover us !" 

Farewell, old Johnny — quiet be thy rest ! — harmless and 
lowly was thy life ! — peaceful and unnoticed thy departure ! 

Few had marked the gradual decline of the poor crea- 
ture ; but for many months he had wasted away, and his 
feeble, deformed frame had bowed nearer and nearer to the 
earth ; and he cared little for any nourishment, except his 
favourite regale of tea, and the mistress's occasional bounty 
— a slice of white bread and butter ; and there was less 
willingness to exert himself than formerly. He still crept 
about his accustomed tasks, but slowly and silently, and 
would sometimes fall asleep over his more sedentary em- 
ployment ; and when spoken to, he seldom replied but by a 
nod and a smile — that peculiar smile of idiotic intelligence. 
Some said the old man grew lazy and sullen, " for what 
could ail him ?" they wondered. Nothing — nothing ailed 
him — nothing to signify — only the cold hand of death was 
on him, and he dropped at last with the leaves in autumn. 
One evening, long after milking-time, the cows he had 



CHAPTER IV. 87 

been intrusted to watch came straggling home without 
their keeper. Search was made for him, and he was soon 
discovered by the children, who were well acquainted with 
his favourite haunts and hiding-places. 

They found him gathered up in his usual form, among 
the dry fern leaves, at the foot of an old hawthorn, near 
which ran a reedy streamlet. His back rested against the 
hawthorn's twisted stem, his old grey head was bare, and a 
few withered leaves had dropped upon it. Beside him lay 
a half- finished cap of woven rushes ; one hand was on it, 
and the other still grasped the loose materials of his simple 
fabric. There was a smile upon his countenance, (he was 
always smiling to himself,) but his head had dropped down 
on his bosom, and his eyes were closed as if in slce[). He 
was dead — quite cold and stiff; so they took him from his 
pleasant fern bank to his late home, the workhouse, and the 
next day he was screwed down in the shell of rough boards, 
the last allowance of parish bounty, and before sunset those 
green sods were trampled down over the pauper's grave. — 
Farewell, old Johnny ! 



38 CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER V. 

A LITTLE longer, yet a iiitle longer, let us tarry in this se- 
cluded burial-ground. The sun'.s golden rim touches not 
yet the line of that bright horizon. Not yet have the small 
birds betaken themselves to their leafy homes, nor the bees 
to their hives, nor the wild rabbits to their burrows on the 
heath. Not yet, sailing like a soft fleecy cloud through the 
grey depths of twilight, hath the light-shunning owl ven- 
tured abroad on her wide winnowing vans, nor is the bat 
come forth, cleaving the dewy air with his eccentric circles. 
Tarry a little longer, even till the moon, that pale, dull, sil- 
very orb, shines out un-eclipsed by the glories of her efful- 
gent brother. Then will her tender light, glancing in be- 
tween those ancient oaks, sleep sweetly on the green graves, 
and partially illumine that south-east angle of the Chuitih 
Tower, and those two long narrow windows. And then 
will our walk homeward be delightful — far more so than 
even in the warm glow of sunset ; for then every bank and 
hedge-row will be glittering with dew in the pale silvery 
light, and every fern leaf will be a diamond spray, and 
every blade of grass a crystal spear ; and sparks ojf living 
fire will tremble on them, and glance out with their emer- 
ald rays from between the broad leaves of the coltsfoot and 
the arum. And then the wild honeysuckles (our hedge- 
rows are full of them) will exhale such sweets as I would 
not exchange for all the odours of the gardens of Damascus ; 
or if we go home by the heath-track, the wild thyme, and 
the widows'-wail, will enrich the air with their aromatic 
fragrance. On such a night as this will be, I never unre- 
luctantly re-enter the formal dwellings of man, or resign 
myself to oblivious slumbers. Methinks how exquisite it 
would be, to revel, like a creature of the elements, the long 
night through in the broad flood of moonshine ! To pass 



CHAPTER V. 39 

from spaee to space with the fleetness of thought, " putting 
a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes," or to skim 
silently along on the stealthy moonbeams, to lonely places, 
where wells of water gush up in secret, where the wild 
deer come fearlessly to drink, where the halcyon rears her 
young, and the water-lily floats like a fairy ship, unseen by 
human eye — and so, admittecl to nature's sanctuary, blend- 
ing as it were in essence with its pervading soul of raptur- 
ous repose — to be abstracted for a while from dull realities, 
the thoughts and cares of earth that clog the inextinguisha- 
ble spirit with their dense vapours, and intercept its higher 
aspirations. What living soul, conscious of its divine ori- 
gin, and of its immortal destination, but must at times feel 
weary of this probationary state, impatient of the conditions 
of its human nature, and of bondage in its earthly taberna- 
cle ! What living soul, that has proved the vanity of all 
sublunary things, but has at times aspirated with the royal 
Psalmist, " Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then would 
I flee away and be at rest !" 

Hark ! there's a stir near us — a stir of footsteps and of 
human voices. It proceeds from within the church ; and 
see ! the porch doors are ajar, and also that low-arched 
doorway opening into the belfry. Those steps are ascend- 
ing its dark, narrow stair ; and then, hark again ! from 
within, a low, dull, creaking sound ; and then one long, 
deep, startling toil — another, ere the echoes of the first 
have died away over the distant woods. That sound is the 
summons of the grave. Some neighbouring peasant is 
borne to-night to his long home ; and, see ! as we turn this 
angle of the church, there, beside that broad old maple, is a 
fresh-opened grave. The dark cavity is covered in by two 
boards laid loosely over — but it v/ill not be long untenant- 
ed. Let us look abroad for the approaching funeral, for, by 
the tolling of the bell, it must be already within sight. It 
comes not up that shady lane — no, nor by the broad heath 
road, from the further hamlet — nor from the direction of 
the Grange farm — but there- — ah ! there it is, and close at 
hand, emarging from that little shrubby hollow, through 
which the road dips to the near village ofDowne. Is it not 



40 CHURCHYARDS. 

a beautiful thing to gaze on, in this lovely secluded spot, by 
the light of that yellow sunset, the mellow hue of which 
falls with such a rich yet tempered brightness on the white 
draperies of those foremost in the procession ? 

It is a maiden's funeral — that, probably, of some young 
person ; for, see ! the pall is borne by six girls, each shroud- 
ed like a nun in her long white flowing hood, and in lieu of 
the black pall, a white sheet is flung over the coffin. The 
lower classes are very tenacious of those distinctive observ- 
ances ; and many a young creature I have known, whose 
delight it seemed, during the last stages of some lingering 
malady, to arrange every thing for her own burial — the 
fashion of her shroud, and the flowers they should strew 
over her in the coffin — the friends who should follow her to 
the grave, and the six of her young companions to be se- 
lected for her pall-bearers. Almost the very poorest con- 
trive, on such occasions, what they call " a creditable bury- 
ing" — even to the coarse refreshments distributed amongst 
the funeral guests. Poor souls ! long and sorely do they 
pinch for it, in their own few comforts, and in their scanty 
meals ; but the self-inflicted privation is unrepiningly en- 
dured, and who would take upon him, if it were possible, to 
restrain that holy and natural impulse to honour the memo- 
ry of the dead ? See ! the train lengthens into sight as it 
winds up the ascent from that wild dingle. The bearers 
and their insensible burden are already near, and there fol- 
low the female mourners foremost. Ah ! I know now for 
whom that bell tolls — for whom that grave is prepared — 
whose remains are there borne along to their last resting- 
place. Close behind the coffin comes a solitary mourner — 
solitary in her grief — and yet she bears in her arms a help- 
less innocent, whose loss is even more deplorable than hers. 
That poor old woman is the widowed mother of Rachel 
Maythorne, whose corpse she is following to the grave ; and 
that unconscious baby who stretches out its little hands 
with laughing glee towards the white drapery of the cof- 
fin, is the desolate orphan of her only child — alas ! of its 
unwedded mother. 
, A dark and foul offence lies at his door who seduced that 



CHAPTER V. 41 

simple creature from the paths of innocence ! A few words 
will tell her story ; but let us stop till the funeral-train has 
passed on into the church, from which the minister now 
advances to meet it. That poor childless mother ! with 
what rapid strides have age and infirmities overtaken her, 
since we saw her this time twelvemonth holding open that 
very gate for the farmer's prosperous family, and following 
them into church with contented humility, accompanied by 
her duteous Rachel. Then she was still a comely matron, 
looking cheerful in her poverty, and strong to labour. 
Now, how bent down with age and feebleness does that poor 
frame appear ! The burden of the little infant is one she 
can ill sustain, but to whom would she resign the precious 
charge ? She has contrived a black frock for the little 
creature — probably from her old gown — her widow's gown — 
for she herself has on no mourning garment ; only an old 
rusty black willow bonnet, with a little crape about it of 
still browner hue, and a large black cotton shawl, with 
which she has covered over, as nearly as possible, that dark 
linen gown. She holds up no handkerchief to her eyes with 
the idle parade of ceremonial woe ; but her face is bent 
down over the baby's bosom, and drops are glistening there, 
and on its soft cheek, that never fell from those young, joy- 
ous eyes. 

A few neighbours follow her — a few poor women — two 
and two, who have all contrived to make some show of de- 
cent mourning ; and those three or four labouring men who 
walk last, have each a crape hat-band that has served for 
many funerals. They are all gone by now, the dead and 
the living. For the last time on earth the departed mortal 
has entered the House of God. While that part of the bu- 
rial-service appointed to be read there is proceeding, a few 
words will tell her story. 

Rachel Maythorne was the only child of her mother, and 
she was a widow, left early to struggle with extreme pov- 
erty, and with the burden of a sickly infant, afflicted with 
epileptic fits, almost from its birth. The neighbours, many 
of them, said, " It would be a mercy, if so be God Almighty 

were pleased to take away the poor baby ; she would never 
4.* 



42 CHURCHYARDS. 

thrive, or live to be a woman, and was a terrible hindrance 
to the industrious mother." But she thought not so, nei- 
ther would she have exchanged her puny wailing infant, for 
the healthiest and the loveliest in the land : — she thought it 
the loveliest, ay, the most intelligent too, though every body 
else saw well enough that it was more backward in every 
thing than almost any child of the same age. But it did 
weather out the precarious season of infancy, and did live 
to be a woman, and even to enjoy a moderate share of 
health, though the fits were never wholly subdued, and they 
undoubtedly had weakened and impaired, though not de- 
stroyed her intellect. Most people at first sight would 
have called Rachel a plain girl, and she was, in truth, far 
from pretty, slight and thin in her person, and, from the 
feebleness of her frame, stooping almost like a woman in 
years. Her complexion, which might have been fair and 
delicate, had she been a lady and luxuriously reared up, 
was naturally pallid ; and exposure to sun and wind, in her 
out-door labours, had thickened it to a dark and muddy hue ; 
but there was a meek and tender expression in her mild 
hazel eyes, and in her dimpled smile, and in the tone of her 
low quiet voice, even in the slight hesitation which impeded 
her utterance, that never failed to excite interest, when 
once they had attracted observation. The mother and 
daughter lived a life of contented poverty ; the former, 
strong and healthful, found frequent employment as a char- 
woman, or in going out to wash, or in field labour ; the lat- 
ter, brought up almost delicately, though the child of indi- 
gence, and still occasionally subject to distressing fits, was 
principally occupied at home, in the care of their cow, the 
management of the little dairy, in the cultivation of their 
small patch of garden, (and small though it was, Rachel 
had her flower-knot in a sunny corner,) and in knitting and 
coarse needle-work. In summer, however, she shared her 
mother's task in the hay-field, in mushroom-picking, and in 
the pleasant labour of the gleaners ; and how sweet was the 
frugal meal of that contented pair, when the burden of the 
day was over, and they sat just within the open door of 



CHAPTER V. 43 

their little cottage, over which a luxuriant jessamine had 
wreathed itself into a natural porch. 

If Nature had been niggardly in storing the simple head 
of poor Rachel, she had been but too prodigal of feeling to 
a heart which overflowed with the milk of human kindness, 
whose capacity of loving seemed boundless, embracing with- 
in its scope every created thing that breathed the breath of 
life. We hear fine ladies and sentimental misses making 
a prodigious fuss about sensibility, and barbarity, and "the 
poor beetle that we tread upon ;" but I do firmly believe 
simple Rachel, without even thinking of her feelings, much 
less saying a word about them, would have gone many steps 
out of her way rather than set her foot upon a worm. It 
was a sore trouble to her, her annual misery, when Daisey's 
calf, that she had patted so fondly, was consigned to the 
butcher's cart, and while the poor mother lowed disconso- 
lately about in quest of her lost little one, there was no 
peace for Rachel. Every moan went to her heart. But 
her love, and pity, and kindness of nature, were not all ex- 
pended (as are some folks' sensibilities) on birds, and beasts, 
and black beetles. Her poor services were at the command 
of all who needed them ; and Rachel was in truth a wel- 
come and a useful guest in every neighbour's cottage. She 
was called in to assist at the wash-tub, to take a turn at the 
butter-churn, to nurse the baby while the mother was more 
actively occupied, or to mind the house while the good 
woman stepped over to the shop, or to watch the sick, while 
others of the family were necessitated to be about the daily 
labour that gained their daily bread ; she could even spell 
out a chapter of the Bible, when the sick person desired to 
hear its comfortable words. True, she was not always very 
happy in her selections. "It was all good;" so she gene- 
rally began reading first where the book fell open, no matter 
if at the numbering of the twelve tribes, or at "The Song 
of Solomon," or the story of "Bel and the Dragon." "It 
was all good," said Rachel ; so she read on boldly through 
thick and thin ; and fine work, to-be-sure, she made of 
some of the terrible hard names. But the simple soul was 



44 CHURCHYARDS. 

rigid, — it was "all good." The intention was perfect ; and 
the spirit in which those inapplicahle portions of Scripture 
were almost unintelligibly read, found favour doubtless with 
Him who claims the service of the heart, and cares little 
for the outward form of sacrifice. 

A child miglit have practised on the simplicity of Rachel 
Maythorne ; and when April-fool day came round, on many 
a bootless errand was she sent, and many a marvellous be- 
lief was palmed upon her by the village urchins, who yet, 
in the midst of their merry mischief, would have proved 
sturdy champions in her cause, had real insult or injury 
been offered to the kind creature, from whom all their tor- 
menting ingenuity could never provoke a more angry ex- 
clamation than the short pathetic words, "Oh dear !" One 
would have thought none but a child could have had the 
heart to abuse even in jest the credulous innocence of that 
unoffending creature. But the human " heart is despe- 
rately wicked ;" and one there was, so callous and corrupt, 
and absorbed in its own selfishness, as to coiivert into " an 
occasion of falling," the very circumstances which should 
have been a wall of defence about poor Rachel. 

It chanced that, towards the end of last year's harvest, 
the Widow Maythorne was confined to her cottage by a 
sprained ankle, so that, for the first time in her life, Rachel 
went out to the light labour of gleaning, unaccompanied by 
her tender parent. Through the remainder of the harvest 
season, she followed Farmer Buckwheat's reapers, and no 
gleaner returned at evening so heavily laden as the widow's 
daughter. For the farmer himself favoured the industry 
of simple Rachel, and no reaper looked sharply towards her, 
though she followed him so close as to glean a chance hand- 
ful, even from the sheaf he was binding together. And she 
followed in the wake of the loaded waggons, from whose 
toppling treasures, as they rustled through the deep narrow 
lanes, the high hedges on either side took tribute ; and 
though her sheaf acquired bulk more considerably than even 
from the golden hangings of the road side, no one rebuked 
the widow's daughter, or repelled her outstretched hand ; 
and one there was, who gave more than passive encourage- 



C1TAPTJ5R V. 45 

merit to her hnmhlo oiuMoaclimonts. And wlu^ii tlio last 
wajj^goii turned into the spacious licUyard, and th(^ «i;l('an(>r3 
retired slowly from i\\c <),at(^, to retra,c<i tiunr way houic- 
W"ard through ihc sanu» lanes, where a li^w <i;ol(hMi ears 
niii^hi yet he addcul (o Ihcir ocxMlJy sli(^av(>-M, th(Mi KaclK^l 
also turned towards her houu^, hu( not in (•on>j)any witli licr 
lellovv-<j;l(>.an(irs. l''or tlu^ y<>""^!,' lartner \ca\ Ikm- hy a n(^arer 
and a |)leasaiit(U" way, (hrou^h the; (iraii<i;(^ honicsicad, and 
tho orchard, and the lia'/el copse, tliat opened just on the 
littl(5 comujon wh(M'e stood h(^r njother's cotta<i;(^, tlu^ (irst of 
the sea.(t(U*<Ml Ir.nuUjt. IJut lhou<.;li (Ik^ way was ceilainly 
shorter, and tiiero were no stih^s (o chunhcr over, and the 
youu*!;; farmer lielp(Ml Raciiel wilh \\cv load, hy (he tinu^ tiu^y 
rea(di;Ml the litllo (-ommon, li.i^hls wcr(! twinkling in nil its 
skirtin«ir cot(ag(^s, and tiie rtsturned oleaiiers wc.rv. jjjalhered 
round (liCMr rru<j^al sup|)or-l)oar(ls, and (h<^ Widow IVIaythorno 
was standi n<^ in lu r jc^ssainine porcli, lookin<r (Mit for her 
lon<r ahstMit lla<"hel, and wonderino- (liat sije linf^ered ho 
lat(;, till the sight of Ihm* heavy hurdtm, as sIh^ (Mtu>r<;ed from 
tli(5 dark copsi;, acc()ntit(Hl lor her la|;<i,in<; loolslc^ps and lar- 
dy r(^turn. Ilr,r companion never wa,lk(!d vvitli h(;r iarlher 

than the cops(\ and ho (exacted a, promise' ^Alas! and 

it was giv(in jind k(^|)t, thou<i;h tlie poor thino (;om|)r(;h(Mi(lc(l 
not why slu^ mioht not niake her dear mother parlakc^- of 
her happy hop(^s ; hul it was his wish, so she ])romisc(l all 
lie (5xa('.t(Hi, and too railhlully k(^pt silence. So lim(5 passed 
on. 'J'lie l)rji!;ht broad harvest moon dwindh'd away to a 
pale cr(\seent, and r(;lired into (Ik; starry dcplhs of heaven, 
and th(>-n, again (inKM'ging from her unseen |)a,ths, she hung 
out her goldcMi lamp, to ligiit the hunler's morilh. 'riuMi 
camo the dark days and cloudy niglils of Novcunlx^r, and 
the candle was lit early in tho widow's cotlage, and Iho 
motluM- and daughler resumed Iheir winter tasks of tho 
spinning wheel and the knitting ne(!dl(\s. And th<; widow's 
h(;:irt was cheery, for the nxnil-chest was full, arul tlie po- 
talo-])a((d) had yielded abundantly, and (here; slood a goodly 
peat-stack by llie door; a,nd, through (h<; bhvssing <d" Provi- 
dence on their careful induslry, they should Ix; led and 
warmed all tlie long winter months ; wo there was gladneas 



46 CHURCHYARDS. 

in the widow's heart. But Rachel drooped ; at first unob- 
served by the fond parent, for the girl was ever gentle and 
quiet, and withal not given to much talking, or to noisy 
merriment ; but then she would sit and sing to herself like 
a bird, over her work, and she was ever ready with a smiling 
look and a cheerful answer, when her mother spoke to, or 
asked a question of her. Now she was silent, but unquiet, 
and would start as if from sleep when spoken to, and fifty 
times in an hour lay by her work hastily, and walk to the 
door, or the window, or the little cupboard, as if for some 
special purpose, which yet seemed ever to slip away unac- 
complished from her bewildered mind ; and sometimes she 
would wander away from her home for an hour or more 
together, and from those lonely rambles she was sure to 
return with looks of deeper dejection, and eyes still heavy 
with the traces of recent tears. The mother's observation 
once aroused, her tender anxiety soon fathomed the cruel 
secret. Alas ! unhappy mother — thou hadst this only trea- 
sure — this one poor lamb — who drank of thy cup, and lay 
in thy bosom, and was to thee a loving and a dutiful child ; 
and the spoiler came, and broke down thy little fence of 
earthly comfort, and laid waste the peaceful fold of nature's 
sweetest charities. 

The rustic libertine, whose ruthless sport, the amusement 
of a vacant hour, had been the seduction of poor Rachel, 
soon wearied of his easy conquest, and cast her "like a 
loathsome weed away." He found it not at first an easy 
task to convince her of his own baseness, and intended de- 
sertion of her ; but when at last he roughly insisted on the 
discontinuance of her importunate claims, and the simple 
mind of his poor victim once fully comprehended his inhu- 
man will, she would have obeyed it in upbraiding silence ; 
but, alas ! her injuries were not to be concealed, and it was 
the hard task of the afflicted mother to appeal for such mise- 
rable compensation as the parish could enforce, to support 
her unhappy child in the hour of trial, and to assist in main- 
taining the fatherless little one. Three months ago it was 
born into this hard, bleak world ; and though the child of 
shame, and poverty, and abandonment, never was the heir 



CHAPTER V. 47 

of a mighty dukedom more fondly welcomed, more dotingly 
gazed on, more tenderly nursed, than that poor baby : and 
it was a lovely infant. How many a rich and childless 
pair would have yielded up even to the half of all their sub- 
stance to be the parents of such a goodly creature ! All 
the sorrows of the forsaken mother, all her rejected affec- 
tions, all her intense capabilities of loving, became so ab- 
sorbed and concentrated in her maternal feelings, that when 
she looked upon her child, and hugged it to her bosom, and 
drank in at her eyes the sweetness of its innocent smiles, it 
would have been difficult, perhaps, to have kept alive in her 
poor simple mind a repentant sorrow for her past fault, as 
associated with the existence of that guiltless creature. No 
one judged hardly of poor Rachel, though many a muttered 
curse, " not loud, but deep," was imprecated on her heart- 
less seducer. She was still a welcome guest in every cot- 
tage — she who had ever been so ready with all her little 
services to every soul who needed them, was now welcome 
to sit with her infant in the low nursing-chair beside their 
humble hearths, or to lay it in the same cradle with their 
own little ones, while she busied herself at her task of nee- 
dle-work. It was a great comfort to the anxious mother 
to know, that, while she was absent from her cottage, her 
daughter had many a friend, and many a home, to which 
she might resort when her own was lonely, or when the pe- 
culiar symptoms with which she was familiar warned her 
of an approaching fit. On such occasions (and she had 
generally sufficient notice) experience had taught her, that 
by flinging herself flat down on her face, either on the bed 
or floor, the attack was greatly mitigated in violence, and 
sometimes wholly averted ; and it had been hitherto an 
especial mercy that the afflictive malady had never made 
its terrific approaches in the night season. Therefore it 
was, that the Widow Maythorne now and then ventured 
to sleep from home, when engaged in one of her various 
occupations, nurse-tending. So engaged, she left her cot- 
tage one evening of last week, and, not expecting to return 
to it before the afternoon of the ensuing day, she made it 
her provident request to a neighbour, that, if Rachel did not 



v» 



48. CttUUCHYAliDS. 

look in on her early in the morning, she would step across 
and see how it fared with her and her baby. Morning 
came, and the good woman was stirring early ; and soon 
every cottage lattice was flung open, and every door un- 
closed, and the blue smoke curled up from every chimney 
but that of the Widow Maythorne's dwelling. There, door 
and window continued fast, and the little muslin curtain 
was undrawn from within the chamber window. So the 
friendly neighbour, mindful of her promise, stepped across 
to the silent cottage, and it was not without an apprehensive 
feeling that she lifted up the latch of the garden wicket, 
before which stood the old cow waiting to be disburdened 
of her milky treasure, and lowing out, at intervals, her un- 
easy impatience at the unusual tardiness of her kind mis- 
tress. Fast was the door, and fast the chamber-window, 
and that of the little kitchen, and cold was the hearth within, 
and all was still as death, and no noise answered to the re- 
peated knocks and calls of the friendly neighbour. She 
tried the chamber casement, but it was fastened within, and 
the little curtain drawn before it precluded all view of the 
interior. But while the dame stood close to it, with her 
face glued to the glass, her ear caught an indistinct sound, 
and in a moment she distinguished the feeble wail of the 
little infant ; but no mother's voice was heard tenderly 
hushing that plaintive murmur. 

Quickly the good dame summoned the assistance of a 
few neighbours — the cottage door was forced open, and 
they passed on through the cold empty kitchen into the lit- 
tie bed-chamber. There stood the poor uncurtained bed, 
whereon the widow and her daughter had slept side by side 
so lovingly for so many quiet and innocent years, aud where 
of late the new-born babe had nestled in his mother's bo- 
som. It was still clinging there — alas ! — to a lifeless 
breast. The living infant was already chilled by the stif- 
fening coldness of the dead mother, who had been, to all 
appearance, for many hours a corpse. The immediate 
cause of her death was also too probably surmised. She 
had evidently expired in a fit ; and from the cramped pos- 
ture in which she was discovered, it was also evident her 



CHAPTER V. 49 

first impulse had been to turn herself round upon her 
face, so to baffle the approaching crisis. But even at that 
fearful moment maternal love had prevailed over the pow- 
erful instinct of self-preservation — she had turned half 
round, but stayed herself there, painfully supported in a 
cramped posture by the elbow of her right arm, while the 
left still clasped the baby to her bosom, and had stiffened so 
in its last tender office. 



50 . CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Not far from the town of , in shire, where I 

passed some weeks in the early part of the present summer, 
is the pleasant village of Halliburn, much resorted to by- 
persons visiting the country, sojourners in the adjacent 
town — health-hunters, view-hunters, antiquity-hunters, feli- 
city-hunters — Time-kiUers in short; to whom any thing 
serves for a lion, and as a point in view for an hour's excur- 
sion. But there are really things worth seeing in and about 
that same village of Halliburn, as those friends can bear 
witness — those dear fellow view-hunters in whose company 
I explored it. They will remember, how, after sundry and 
various consultations, as to when we should go, and how we 
should go, and at what time, and for how long ; and, after 
consulting the Guide-book, and recalling all we had ever 
reported of this or that place by such or such a person — and 
after all talking together for an hour, and each suggesting 
a different plan, and one premising, on the hest authority, 
that such a road was in an impassable state, and a second 
rejoining, from still heiter authority, that it was as smooth 
as a gravel-walk — and one prophesying it would rain, and 
the rest staking their lives that it would not rain — and some 
proposing to walk, and others to ride — and one voting for a 
car that would hold all, and another for a brace of donkey 
carts — the matter in debate at last resolved itself into some- 
thing of a settled plan, our clashing votes subsiding like a 
parcel of little frothy waves into one great billow ; and it 
was definitively agreed that we should go to Halliburn — that 
we should dine early, and set out early, to enjoy a fine, 
long summer evening in rambling about there with our 
books and pencils — that we should go in a car — and that 
we should go that very evening. 



CHAPTER VI. 51 

Don't you remember all this, dear friends of mine ? and 
how quickly we despatched our dinner, and how we packed 
up the pencils and sketch-books 1 and how James was sent 
off for a car, of which description of vehicle one of us 
averred there were hundreds to be hired at every corner — 
and how James was gone a mortal time — and how we 
called him all sorts of names, " loitering," and " stupid," 
and " blind," and what not — and how he came back at 
last, looking as innocent as a dove, and puffing like a gram- 
pus — and how it turned out that there were but two cars in 
the whole place, and that by superhuman exertions he had 
at last secured one of them — and how we flew down stairs, 
and found it at the door — and how it was a very odd-look- 
ing vehicle, mounted up like a tub upon stilts ! — and how it 
cocked up so behind, we could hardly scramble in — and how, 
when we were in, we looked at the horse and did not like 
him, and then at one another, and did not like each other's 
looks — and how we went off at last, bang ! with such a jerk 
as jerked us altogether in a bunch, with our eight hands up 
in the middle, like four pigeons in a pie — and how we tore 
down the street like fury, and whisked round the corner 
like a whirlwind — and how the beast of a horse pranced and 
snorted like a griffin — and how one of us vowed he was a 
griffin and no mortal horse — and how another of us was 
partly of the same opinion — and how we all hated the ir- 
regularity of his proceedings, and the jolting, and swinging, 
and bumping of the tub — and how at last we all attacked 
the driver, and insisted on getting out — and how we all 
blessed our stars at once more touching te7Ta Jirma — and 
how we found out that we had narrowly escaped the fate 
of Mazeppa, having actually been tied on to the tail of a 
wild horse, whose proprietor had allotted to us the honor of 
breaking his spirit, or oul* own necks. 

Out of evil often good proceedeth — our proud spirits 
were humbled. We had enough of prancing steeds and 
jumping chariots — we had tasted of exaltation, and were 
satisfied — we had been set up aloft, and were glad to come 
down again — so, with meek minds and amiable condescen- 
sion, we intrusted ourselves, deux d deux, to a couple of don- 



52 CHURCHYARDS. ^^^^ 

key carts, and off we were once more I — ours, you know, 
Lilias, leading the way ! And don't you remember — can 
you ever forget — that blear-eyed goblin that attended us as 
a running footman, shuffling along by the side of his don- 
key, and regaling us, chemin faisani, with his amiable con- 
versation ? One of his eyes, you know — the right — with 
its little rusty tuft of eyebrow, had wandered half-way up 
into his forehead ; the other, leaving a long, black, shaggy 
eyebrow in its natural place, had dropped downhill — lan- 
guishly half-closed — towards the left corner of his mouth, 
which lovingly twitched upwards to meet it half-way ; and 
his nose was puckered down all on one side into the cheek 
by a great red and purple seam ; and he was all over 
seamed and speckled with black, red, and purple — for the 
poor wretch had evidently been blown up and half-roasted 
some time or other, though never the worse for it when we 
had the first happiness of beholding him, excepting in the 
aforementioned trifling disarrangement of physiognomy, at 
which, for my part, I was so far from conceiving any man- 
ner of disgust, that I thought the countenance had more 
than gained in character and expression — which is every 
thing, you know — what it had lost in the trifling point, 
regularity of features. There was something infinitely 
piquant, — something inexpressibly wild and picturesque 
(quite Salvatorish) in the tout ensemble! The whole face 
had undergone a face-quake ; and sparks of the volcanic 
flame were yet visible in the one little ferret eye, that 
gleamed in his forehead like a live coal as he ran on beside 
us, now vehemently exciting his donkey to super-donkeyish 
exertions — now declaiming to us, with all the fervour of a 
dilettante guide, on views, antiquities, curiosities, fossils, 
minerals, snail-shells, and Roman pavements. He was a 
jewel of a guide ! — " take him for all in all, we shall not 
look upon his like again !" 

Well, you remember we alighted — W7?lighted, as an old 
lady of my acquaintance used to say — at the entrance of 
the village ; and there again debate ensued as to where we 
shouhl first shape our course. There was the church — a 
fine old church !r— to be seen, and perhaps sketched. There 



CHAPTER VI, 53 

was a famous grotto, of which the Guide-book told wonders ; 
and lastly, there was, within a pretty walk of the cliurch, 
an old, old house, the oldest in the county, a manor-house, 
the property of one of the most ancient families in the king- 
dom — the family of the De la Veres. That venerable man- 
sion was, I believe, the greatest attraction to us all ; but, 
like dainty children, we set it aside for bonne bouche, and 
decided to begin with the grotto. Strange misgivings crept 
over us, when we were directed through the village street 
to the door of a mean-looking house, and told that was the 
entrance to " the cool cavern, the mysterious grot!" and 
when, instead of a nymph, a wood or water nymph — an 
Oread, a Dryad, or a Hamadryad — there came forth to 
greet, and introduce us to the romantic solitude, an old, 
frightful, painted hag, with her elf-locks bristling out in pa- 
pers, like porcupine quills, from under the frills and flappets 
of a high French cap, and in her ears (prodigious ears they 
were !) two monstrous gold rings, that looked like the han- 
dles of a copper tea-urn. 

We shrank back at the sight of this gorgon ; but she 
strutted towards us with her arms a-kimbo, and there was a 
sinister determination in the tone in which she said to us, 
" Walk in, ladies, and see the grotto." She looked deter- 
mined that we should see it, and we looked at her claws and 
her fierce eyes, and felt she was not a person to be affront- 
ed ; so, as our evil stars had led us to the entrance of her 
den, we submitted to fate, and followed the sylvan goddess 
— followed her through a dark, dirty, narrow passage, out at 
a little mean door, into an enclosed back-yard, about forty 
feet square, divided into four compartments, containing a 
parterre, a wilderness, a castle, and the grotto! — and over 
the entrance to this Elysium was flung a wooden arch, 
painted sky-blue, whereon it was notified, in gold letters, 
that " the whole was to be seen for the inconsiderable sum of 
sixpence a-head ;" moreover, that " tea and rolls, and all 
other refreshments, were furnished on equally reasonable 
terms." 

Oh ye gods ! — ^so we poor innocents had been betrayed 
into a sixpenny tea-garden ! — and sure enough, there, just 
5* 



54 CHURCHYAKDS. 

opposite to us, perched upon a grass mound, in the — the 
donjon-keep of the castle I suppose, sat six merry mortals, 
in a state of earthly beatitude, their faces shining in the red- 
hot evening sun like fresh-varnished vermilion coach-panels, 
swilling tea and negus, and stuffing down hot rolls, bread 
and butter, and cold ham, with most romantic fervour. 
We paid our sixpences, and made our retreat as quietly and 
civilly as possible ; having first, to pacify our conductress, 
poked our noses into the dirty coal-hole, stuck with bits of 
glass, oyster and periwinkle-shells, which she called " The 
Grotto ;" and you^ my dear Lilias, had the complaisance to 
mount up to the battlements of the castle, (where, by-the- 
by, you looked like sister Ann in Bluebeard,) in compliance 
with the gorgon's importunities. To you, therefore, we 
were indebted for her gracious patronage, when, on inquir- 
ing, as we left the enchanted garden, whether strangers 
were allowed to see Halliburn-house, she replied, with a 
consequential toss of her head, that she was well known 
there, and that if we applied to the butler in the name of 
" Madam Simpson of the Grotto," we might be sure of im- 
mediate admittance. So much for the first of our three 
lions ; and, truly, we had obtained sixpennyworth for our 
sixpence, in the patronage of " Madam Simpson of the 
Grotto." 

Five minutes' walk brought us to the next object in our 
itinerary, and here no shock awaited us. No human gor- 
gon, no officious guide, no Madam Simpson, to fling open 
the low white wicket, and cry, " Walk in, ladies, for six- 
pence a-head." 

Sole guardians of the gate, two fine old maples arched 
over it their interwoven boughs ; and many others, and 
several majestic elms, were grouped together, or stood 
singly, in and about the churchyard. A few cottages, with 
pretty neat gardens, were scattered around ; and, at the 
further end of a broad smooth grass-plat, parallel with the 
churchyard, and separated from it only by a low stone wall, 
stood the rectory, a long, low, irregularly-shaped building 
of common brick, and with a tiled roof, but made pictur- 
esque by the rich and mellow colouring of age, and by the 



CHAPTER VI. * 55 

porches, pent-houses, and buttresses, the additions of many 
successive incumbents, and by a noble old vine that covered 
the entire front, a great part of the long sloping roof, and 
had even been trained round one of the gables, up to the 
very top of a high stack of clustered chimneys. 

Behind the church and rectory appeared an undulating 
sea of foliage, ancient oak and beech, with here and there a 
graceful feathery birch glancing and shivering in the sun, 
like silvery froth above the darker waves ; and beneath those 
venerable trees, winded away a broad, shady, park-like road, 
to which a gate opened from the -lane that ran along behind 
the church and rectory. That road was the more private 
approach to Halliburn House, the ancient mansion of the 
De la Veres ; and every object in the surrounding scene 
was, in one way or other, associated with the past or present 
circumstances of that venerable race. The whole village 
had, in former times, been a fief of their extensive lordship, 
and great part of it was still in their possession. The living 
was in their gift, and had always been held by a younger 
son of their house, till the branches began to fail about the 
old family-tree. The church had been erected by their 
pious progenitors ; and many succeeding De la Veres had 
beautified and enlarged it, and added gallery and organ-loft, 
and adorned the chancel with carved and gilded work, and 
its long window with painted glass, emblazoned with the 
twelve apostles, and with the family escutcheon ; and had 
enriched its altar with pix and chalice of massy embossed 
silver, and with fine damask napery, and with high branched 
candlesticks of silver gilt, and with scarlet cushions and has- 
socks, bordered with broad gold lace, and sumptuously fringed 
and tasselled with the same. And these pious benefactions 
of theirs, and their good deeds that they did, and the ring of 
bells that they gave, and the gilt weathercock that they 
caused to be set up on the church-steeple, and the new face 
wherewith they did repair and beautify the old clock that 
was therein, and the marble font that they presented, and 
the alms-houses that they built, and the school that they 
endowed — are not all these things recorded, in goodly golden 
capitals, on divers tablets, conspicuously affixed in sundry 



56 CHURCHYARDS. 

and several places in the said church — to wit, over the great 
door, and in the centre of the organ-loft, and in five several 
compartments along the panelling of the long north gallery ; 
and to each and every one of those honourable memorials, 
are not the names of the churchwardens of the time being, 
duly and reverently appended ? 

And on the left, as you go up the chancel, immediately 
beside the gilded rails of the altar, is the large, square, com- 
modious pew of the De la Veres, to which you ascend by 
two steps ; and its floor is covered with what hath been a 
rich, bright Turkey carpet, and the damask with which it is 
lined and cushioned, was once resplendent crimson, now 
faded to tawny orange, and sorely perforated by the devour- 
ing moth. And all the Testaments, Prayer-books, and 
Hymn-books lying on the carved oak reading-shelves, are 
bound in vellum, emblazoned with the arms of the De la 
Veres, and clasped, or have been once, with brazen or silver 
clasps. But some of them have bulged out of all bookish 
shape, and the fine parchment covers have shrunk up like 
sear and shrivelled leaves. That small thick Prayer-book, 
in particular, that was once so splendidly emblazoned — one 
clasp still hangs, by half a hinge, on one remaining cover — 
the other is quite gone from the curled and tattered leaves. 
And see ! on that blank leaf before the title-page, is some 
pale discoloured writing. First, in a fine delicate Italian 
hand, comes the name of 

" Agnes de la Vera — her book, 
Y* gift of her Hon'^ Mother, 
Dame Eleanor de la Vere, 
June y« 20^'^^' 1614." 

And lower down, on the same page, is again written, in larger 
and more antique characters — 

" Mye deare Childe dyed 

June y^ 26'^^' 1614, 

in y^ 19*'^^ yeare of her age. — 

• Y* Lord gave and y^ Lord taketh awaye, 

Bless*^ be y® name of y^ Lord !' " 



CHAPTER VI. 57 

Those words have been blotted as they were written, but not 
alone by the unsteady hand of the writer. 

The book falls open at the Psalms. — See ! at the xxth 
morning of the month — and there ! there ! — in that very 
place, almost incorporated by age into the very substance of 
the paper, are a few stitf, shrunken rose-leaves ! They fell, 
doubtless, from the bosom of that young Agnes, on that happy 
birthday ; and before those leaves were withered, the human 
flower had dropped into the dust ! And now what matters 
it, or to whom, that the lovely and the loved was taken hence 
so early ? 

And all the chancel, and many other parts of the church, 
are covered with hatchments and monumental tablets of the 
De la Veres. Of the former, some so faded and blurred by 
age and damp, that the proud bend of the milk-white plume, 
towering from its coroneted crest, is scarce distinguishable 
from the skull that grins beneath, in the centre of its half- 
obliterated " Resurgam." — On the right of the altar, just 
opposite the family pew, is a railed-in space, containing two 
monuments. One of great antiquity ; the other very an- 
cient also, but of a much later age. Both are altar-tombs. 
The first — once deeply and richly wrought with curious 
carved work — is worn away (all its acute angles, and salient 
points, and bold projections, flattened and rounded off) to a 
mere oblong stone, one side of which has sunk deep into the 
pavement of the church. Two figures, rudely sculptured, 
are extended on it. One of a knight in armour — (see ! that 
mailed hand is almost perfect,) and of a lady, whose square 
headgear, descending in straight folds on either side the face, 
is still distinguishable, though the face itself has long been 
worn awoy to a flat polished surface — just slightly indented 
at the place the mouth once occupied. The upper part of 
the knight's high Roman nose still projects from his demo- 
lished visage ; and one can still trace the prominent cheek- 
bones and the bold martial brow — 

" Outstretch'd together are express' d 

He and my ladye fair, 
With hands uplifted on the breast, 

In attitude of prayer : 



68 CHURCHYARDS. 

Long-visaged — clad in armour, he — 
With ruffled arm and bodice, she." 

Their heads repose on a tasselled cushion, and a greyhound 

couches at their feet — and on the sides of the tomb 

is it really impossible to make out any part of that long in- 
scription? Surely some words are yet legible here 

and there — some letters at least. See ! that great R is 
plain — and the next letter, i — and all the following ones 
may be spelled out with a little patience — and, lo ! the 
name that was doubtless consigned to immortality — " Sir 
Richard De la Verc." And then ! — lower down, on that 
third line, the word — " Plan-tagenet." And then again, 
" K^^ E — w — ," Edward, surely — and those figures must 
have designated him Third of the name, for immediately 
after, "Cressy" is plainly discernible. And on the shield — ■ 
what countless quarterings have been here ! One may 
trace the compartments, but no more ; and the rich mantle ! 
and the barred helmet ! and then — oh, yes — surmounting 
the helmet, there are the ducal coronet, and the fine ostrich 
plumes, the noble achievement of the De la Veres, won by 
that grim knight upon the plain of Cressy — " Requiescat in 
pace" — Sir Richard de la Vere ! 

And on this other tomb are also extended two figures, 
male and female — and theirs is the fashion of a later age. 
There is the slashed vest, and the bulky padded shoulders 
and chest, and the trunk hose, and long pointed shoes, with 
large rosettes, of Elizabeth's or James's era. And the small 
rufi" and peaked beard of the male figure, and the chin, and 
the great thumb ring — all perfect. And the lady's little 
jewelled skullcap, and monstrous ruff, and hour-glass shape, 
and the multitudinous plaits of her nether garments. And 
on that compartment of the tomb, the shield, with the proud 
bearings, is visible enough. It hath been emblazoned in 
colours proper, and patches of gules and azure yet cling to 
the groundwork, and that griffin's claw is still sheathed 
or. — And the surrounding inscriptions are all legible. In 
the compartments opposite, are the names of " Reginald de 
la Vere," and " Dame Eleanor, his wife, the only daughter 



CHAPTER vr. 69 

and heiress of Sir Marmaduke Hepburn." And in the 
next, and next, and yet another, of three " fair sonnes," 
who preceded their parents to the grave ; and last, (here is 
no vacant space,) of "Agnes de la Vere, their onlye daugh- 
ter." Ah ! yes — the same. See there the end of all 
things ! Illustrious descent — heroic deeds — worldly pros- 
perity — parental hopes — strength, youth, and beauty ! — 
"Sic transit gloria mundi." 

Look ! in that dark corner of the chancel, at the termi- 
nation of that narrow passage running along from the com- 
munion-table behind the two monuments, is a low iron 
door, just visible from the family pew. More than half a 
century hath passed away since that door hath grated on 
its rusty hinges ; but before that period, frequently were its 
heavy bars removed, and down the narrow stair to which it 
opens, generation after generation of the De la Veres de- 
scended to their "dark house of kindred dead," till no 
space remained unoccupied in those silent chambers. And 
it should seem that the extinction of the ancient race drew 
near, from the time that their sepulchral home, having re- 
ceived the apportioned number for whom its rest was pre- 
pared, closed its inexorable doors against their posterity. 
Certain it is, that from about this time the name has been 
gradually perishing away from among the rolls of the living, 
till it rested at last with three persons only, the son and two 
daughters of the tenth Reginald. 

That son was named after his martial ancestor, but the 
last Richard De la Vere lived and died a man of peace, a 
widower, and childless ; for the wife of his youthful love 
had been taken from him in the first year of their union ; 
and from the time of her death, withdrawing from the world 
and from public life, and wellnigh from all neighbourly in- 
tercourse, he had lived entirely at the old family mansion 
with his two unmarried sisters, whose veneration for the last 
male survivor of their ancient race, as well as their strong 
affection for him, suffered them not to murmur, even in 
thought, at the life of total seclusion, which, in all proba- 
bility, condemned them to one of celibacy. So the squire 
and his two faithful companions lived on together a long 



60 CHURCHYARDS. 

life of tranquil monotony, a vegetative dream-like existence, 
so unruffled by the usual accidents of " chance and change," 
that their very minds became stagnant, incapable of reflect- 
ing exterior objects, and insensible to the noiseless wafting 
of Time's pinions, that swept by so gently. But those quiet 
waters brooded on their own depths — on " the long-faded 
glories they covered ;" and perhaps the pride of ancestry, 
and the feeling of hereditary consequence, were never more 
powerful than in the hearts of those three secluded persons, 
whose existence was scarcely remembered beyond the pre- 
cincts of their own domain ; whose views, and cares, and 
interests, had long been circumscribed by its narrow limits, 
and with whom the very name itself, the long transmitted 
name, would so soon descend into the dust and be extinct 
for ever. Barring this human failing, and perhaps also the 
unsocial retiredness of their general habits, which had grown 
on th^m imperceptibly, partly from natural shyness, height- 
ened by indulgence into morbid feeling, and partly from the 
altered circumstances of the family, which they shrank from 
exposing to the vulgar eye — barring such human failings, 
these last descendants of the De la Veres were kind, and 
good, and pious people, beloved in their household and 
amongst their tenantry, and never named but respectfully, 
(when named at all,) even by the neighbouring gentry, with 
whom they had long ceased to keep up any visiting inter- 
course beyond the rare occurrence of a morning call. So 
years stole on, till age had palsied the firm step of the 
squire, and silvered the bright locks of the once-blooming 
sisters. 

Then was the last branch shaken off the old sapless tree. 
Three withered leaves yet hung upon it, to be succeeded by 
no after-vegetation. First dropped the brother ; and soon 
after the youngest of the venerable sisters ; and then one 
poor, infirm, solitary female, the last of her race, was left 
alone in the desolate habitation of the once-flourishing De 
la Veres. But if you would know more of that antique 
mansion, and of its aged mistress and her immediate prede- 
cessors, you must come outside the church, for there are 
their sepulchres. There, since the closing up of the family 



CHAPTER VI. 61 

vault, have the later De la Veres made their beds in the 
dust, though without the walls of the church, yet as near as 
might be to its subterranean chambers, and to the ashes of 
their kindred dead. These things that I have spoken of — 
those tombs and those hatchments, and the family pew, and 
the low iron door— are they not to be seen, even unto this 
day, in the ancient church of Halliburn ? — you know, dear 
Lilias ! they so engrossed our attention on our first visit to 
the same, that time remained not that evening for our pur- 
posed survey of the old family mansion. Besides, the 
churchyard was yet to be conned over, and the sun was al- 
ready descending behind the distant hills. So, taking our 
outward survey of the venerable church, and a slight pencil 
sketch, almost as rapidly executed, we turned our faces 
homeward, reserving for another evening the further prose- 
cution of our antiquarian researches. 



62 CHURCHYARDS, 



CHAPTER VII. 

The third evening from our first visit to Halliburu church, 
found us re-assembled near the venerable structure, pre- 
paring to complete our survey of its beautiful churchyard, 
and afterwards to prosecute our further scheme of visiting 
the ancient mansion-house of the De la Veres. The burial- 
ground was beautifully situated, and finely shaded by ma- 
jestic trees. Its field of graves, and the intersecting paths, 
were in that state of neat and decent order which should 
ever characterize the resting-place of the dead ; but it con- 
tained no object of particular interest, save that enclosed 
space adjoining the church to which I alluded in my last 
chapter. That outer court of death ! That supplement to 
the sepulchre of the De la Veres ! It was a singular-look- 
ing burial-place ! — ^the most forlorn I ever looked upon. 
The more so for being the only neglected spot in the 
whole churchyard— the only one upon which the grass was 
allowed to shoot up in rank luxuriance, intermingled with 
tall tufts of nettles and mallows ; and one felt sad looking 
on those forsaken graves, as if the poor sleepers beneath 
them were unkindly excluded from the vaulted chambers 
within, the dark asylum of their kindred dead. It was a 
long strip of ground, close under, and running parallel to, 
the chancel wall ; a projection of the building bounding it 
at one end, while the other and the outer side was parted 
off* from the re-st of the churchyard by a high iron railing. 
Within that barrier was arranged a single row of graves — 
eight, I think, in number — mere turfen hillocks, undistin- 
guished by tomb or headstone, or memorial of any kind, 
save cfee, a small, mean, mural tablet of the commonest 
stone, affixed in that part of the church wall immediately 
Over the eighth, and apparently the last heaped grave. 
But, in that poor memorial, the pride of illustrious ancestry, 



mr 



CHAPTER VII. 63 

the last sparks of human vanity, were yet legible. The 
form was that of an armorial shield, though containing only 
a plain and simply worded inscription ; but all the ingenuity 
of the rude sculptor had been exercised in carving out the 
sides of that coarse stone into the semblance of a mantle ; 
and it was just discernible, after some little patient investi- 
gation, that the five uncouth lumps, issuing out of a sort of 
basket on the top, were designed to represent an ostrich 
plume, surmounting a ducal coronet. And that rude 
mockery of the family crest had been there affixed in con- 
tempt of heraldic fitness. The name beneath was that of 
a female, and the inscription ran simply — 

" To the memory of 

Gertrude de la Vere, 

The second daughter of Reginald and 

Elizabeth de la Vere, 

Who departed this life May the 27th, 1820, 

Aged 79 years." 

What a striking contrast suggested itself between that 
crumbling discoloured stone, " with shapeless sculpture deck- 
ed," and coarsely engraven with that simple obituary, and 
the polished marbles, the costly gilding, the " cunning 
carved work," the elaborate inscriptions, wherewith the in- 
terior of the church was emblazoned, in memory of the ear- 
lier De la Veres. Not one forgotten there — not one unre- 
corded, save the poor sleeper beneath that eighth grave ; 
for, of those who tenanted the remaining seven hillocks,, each 
had his own memorial within, arranged in due succession 
with those of his progenitors. It is true, that a wide dispar- 
ity of sepulchral magnificence was apparent betwixt those 
later monuments and the proud tombs of the long-departed. 
A marble tablet, with a simple relievo~an urn, a cypress 
branch, or a funeral wreath — but on each the family achieve- 
ment. Such were the recently-erected monuments, and 
each in succession had abated a little and a little of costly 
decoration, till the last (that of the late Squire) was a plain 
square tablet of white marble, on a black ground, bearing 



64 CHURCHYARDS. 

the inscription, and underneath the arms of the deceased, 
not sculptured, but emblazoned in colours proper, on a very 
small shield slightly elevated. But that plain memorial was 
of marble, and neatly executed, and had been respectfully 
added, " in order due," to the long line of family records. 
Wherefore, then, had the name of that poor female, that 
solitary outcast, no place amongst those of her ancestors 
and near kindred ? Were there none left to honour the 
memory of the dead! to take order for the last respectful 
observances to the latest De la Vere ? One sole survivor, 
the elder sister, had closed the eyes of that last being in 
whose veins ran the same stream that feebly circulated 
through her own. And she had taken order (as far as her 
enfeebled powers permitted) that ail due observances should 
be respectfully attended to, and she had bethought her — 
confusedly, indeed, but with tenacious adherence to ancient 
family custom — that " something should be done" — " some- 
thing should be ordered" — some tomb, some monument to 
the memory of the deceased. And thereupon the village 
stone-mason was called in and consulted ; but the poor lady 
rambled strangely in her directions, so that, at last, the rustic 
sculptor was left almost unrestricted to the guidance of his 
own taste and judgment, except on one point to which Mrs. 
Grace steadily adhered, recurring to it as to a point d^appui, 
whenever her poor head lost itself in a labyrinth of perplex- 
ities. " The family crest — the coronet — the ostrich plume" 
— that was to be properly conspicuous. " Was not her poor 
dear sister a De la Vere ? Almost the last — but for herself 
— no matter ! — only — they were to be sure to leave room 
enough for her name under her sister's ; and perhaps some 
one — her old steward or the minister — Vv^ould see that it was 
engraven there." 

Thus commissioned, the village artist went proudly to 
work, and at last finished off, to his own entire satisfaction, 
the mural tablet we have seen affixed over the grave of Mrs. 
Gertrude De la Vere. The inscription had been arranged 
in that concise and simple form by the rector, who, having 
been consulted on the subject by the aged lady, had at last 
prevailed over her bewildered preconception that it should 



CHAPTER vir. 65 

be an elaborate composition — " in Latin, perhaps — something 
alluding to their illustrious ancestors — to Sir Richard De la 
Vere, and the battle of Cressy." But the minister was a 
learned man, and she was content to leave it to him ; only, 
by her express desire, the tablet was affixed without the 
church, over the grave of the departed. Her motives for 
this request were never very clearly comprehended ; only 
something she hinted — very distantly, for it was a tender 
subject — of the altered circumstances of the family — that a 
poor stone was all that could be afforded to the memory of 
its latest descendants ; and " that would look poorly," she 
muttered to herself in a low under-tone, " amongst all those 
grand marbles in the chancel.^' 

It was true that the worldly prosperity of the De la Veres 
had been on the decline for many successive generations ; 
and, on the decease of the last male survivor, the aged sis- 
ters, though for the lives of both left in possession of the 
family mansion and its immediate dependencies, had found 
themselves straitened in the means of continuing the estab- 
lishment on its footing of ancient respectability. But the 
hearts of both clung to the things, and the customs, and the 
fashions, which they had been habituated to from their ear- 
liest recollection, and they sacrificed many private comforts 
and indulgences to the pardonable weakness of keeping up 
every thing, as nearly as possible, in the same style as during 
the lifetime of their honoured parents, and of their late dea^ 
brother. 

So, in outward appearance, little change was perceptible ; 
and while the sisters were spared to each other, the stronger 
mind of the younger sustained and excited to beneficial ex- 
ertions the more timid and desponding spirit of the elder 
sister. But when the latter was left utterly desolate, then 
indeed the burdens of care, of age, and infirmity, fell heavily 
upon her ; and a terror of impending poverty (the phantom 
of a weak and depressed spirit, and distempered imagination) 
aggravated the real evils of her forlorn condition. Under 
the influence of these feelings, she had given her directions 
respecting that singular tablet consecrated to the memory of 
Mrs. Gertrude De la Vere. 
6* 



^^ 



66 CHURCHYARDS. 

They had been, as we have seen, scrupulously attended 
to, and beneath her sister's name sufficient space to receive 
her own had been carefully left vacant. And beside her 
sister's grave, there was room enough for one more hillock 
- — for one more only — to fill up the long strip of ground ap- 
propriated to the late De la Veres. A hundred years before, 
that space had been railed in from the common resting-place 
of the vulgar dead ; but what nice calculator had then com- 
puted so exactly how many feet of earth would suffice to in- 
clude (each in his common cell) the remnant of the ancient 
race ? 

The broad disc of the setting sun was yet high in the 
golden chambers of the west, when we turned from the ce- 
metery of the De la Veres to pursue our walk towards their 
ancient mansion-house. Our road lay, as described, through 
those venerable woods, some of whose noble oaks appeared 
coeval with the earlier generations of the family ; and many 
of them, in their various stages of decay, were strikingly 
typical of its long decline and approaching extinction. One 
in particular arrested our attention. Almost the last of the 
grove, and now, indeed, considerably in advance of it, from 
the decay or removal of intermediate timber, it stood singly 
on the open grass land immediately approximating to the 
mansion. It had been a superb tree, the monarch of the 
grove ! Its bole, rugged and rifted, and of immense circum- 
ference, stood up so proudly steadfast, as if the enormous 
roots, spreading for many yards around, and heaving through 
the turf in twisted nakedness, and knots, and curious fret- 
work, had grappled with the very centre of the earth, and 
would maintain their hold, till shaken thence by nature's 
last convulsions. But the vast trunk was hollow at the core 
— hollowed out into a spacious grotto, where (he sheep took 
shelter, and the mare, with her young colt beside her, lay 
down in the heat of the day. And still the mere shell, with 
its tough coating of rough mossy bark, was of strength suf- 
ficient to bear up the burden of the forks into which the tree 
branched off from its centre. Three noble limbs had they 
been in the days of their vigorous maturity, overspreading 
the earth, for many roods around, with (he broad shadow of 



CHAPTER vir. 67 

their leafy branches ; but now despoiled of those, the gigan- 
tic arms stretched out their unsheltered nakedness in the 
stern grandeur of decaying greatness. Two of these forks 
were completely dead. From one of them the bark had 
dropped away, leaving it exposed in skeleton whiteness. 
The third showed signs of feebly lingering life — a mossy 
spray or two, on which a few leaves yet hung, but they were 
pale and sickly, and ready to fall at the first autumnal blast. 
The road wound along close under the trunk of that old tree. 
A few yards further, and we stood before the gateway of 
Halliburn House. 

I never beheld a scene of more quiet cheerfulness than 
that before us — yes, of cheerful quiet — for however the ob- 
servant eye might trace indications of decay and change, 
there was none of neglect and desolation — no appearance 
of ruin or dilapidation about the buildings, or of slovenly 
disorder in the homestead. It is true, the broad gravelled 
road of approach was no longer of that bright colour which 
tells of frequent renewal, and there were no tracks of car- 
riage wheels, except of such as had passed and repassed for 
agricultural purposes ; but it was hard and smooth, and 
neatly edged and weeded, and nothing could exceed the 
fine order, and rich verdure, of the pastures through which 
it wound. The people were engaged in hay-making that 
very evening, and the waggons were plying to and fro be- 
fore the old gateway — to and fro, from the adjoining open 
rick-yard, within which we had a glimpse of objects strange- 
ly incongruous. 

The coach-house and stables opened into the same area, 
surrounded on the other sides by barns, granaries, and cat- 
tle-stalls ; but the line of demarcation was no longer so 
evident between the two departments, as it doubtless had 
been in the more flourishing days of the establishment. 
One large building had fallen entirely into decay, and, to 
supply the want of it, others had been converted to purposes 
wide of those for which they were originally designed. 
Part of the large barn was metamorphosed into a cart-shed, 
and a rough, clumsy, broad-wheeled dung-cart was stowed 
away in the capacious coach-house — (Oh, spirits of the de- 



68 CHURCHYARDS. 

parted De la Veres!) — cheek by jowl with the old family 
coach ! that indescribable vehicle ! The coach-house doors 
stood wide open, and we took a full survey of it. It was in 
shape like those lackered tin toys, (themselves, I believe, 
become unfashionable now,) which were the delight of 
children when I was a child — like the coaches in old prints 
and pictures, representing the setting forth of Louis le 
Grand and his Court, to take the air in the neighbourhood 
of Versailles. It was low, and broad, and deep, and carved 
and gilded, and all windows in the upper panels. The low- 
er, every one emblazoned with the family arms ; the ostrich 
plume spreading so extravagantly, as if the whole tail of an 
ostrich must have gone to the composition of each. 

Years had elapsed since that venerable relic had moved 
from its resting-place, except when irreverently drawn for- 
ward or aside, to make way for the vulgar associates thrust 
into the space beside it once occupied by a towering phaeton 
and a stately chariot — varnish there was none remaining 
on its blistered and rusty panels ; a heap of oat-straw had 
fallen down from the raftered ceiling on its dishonoured 
top, and a parcel of clucking hens were pecking about and 
perching on its wheels and springs ; while at one side win- 
dow, whence in its days of giory looked forth so many fair 
and noble faces, in awful majesty of plume and periwig, a 
dunghill cock had taken his bold station, and there he 
stood clapping his wings, and crowing as it were in con- 
scious exultation. The stable doors were also open, but no 
pampered steeds were visible in the long range of stalls ; 
two of them were converted into calf-pens ; a sick cow was 
tethered in a third, and by the clumsy rusty collars, and 
pieces of coarse harness hanging about on the others, they 
were apparently occupied by the farm -horses ; one of these, 
indeed, an old blind mare, suffering from some disease in its 
legs, which were swathed and bandaged up, was littered in 
a side-stall, over which, on a painted board above the man- 
ger, the name of " Highflier" was still legible. In another, 
(one of those converted into calf-pens,) we read that of 
" Cressy." A great grey cat sat snugly trussed up on the 
broad ledge of one of the stall partitions ; a mouser, of such 



CHAPTER VII. 69 

venerable aspect, as if her early days had been contempo- 
raneous with the prime of Highflier and Cressy. Invited 
by the open gates, and by the absence of the people, we 
took a brief survey of all these things, and then returned to 
the great gateway, from which we had stepped aside for a 
moment. 

The mansion-house, comprising its several court-yards, 
offices, and out-buildings, occupied altogether a large 
square, surrounded by a stone wail, in some places scarcely 
breast-high, in others, (as along the principal front,) suffi- 
ciently elevated to afford a lofty broad archway, through 
which we passed into the first court, a square grass plat 
enclosed on every side by the same grey walls over which 
the ivy crept with its tenacious verdure, knotting itself 
into a leafy mass over the first archway. The second, 
to which we passed on over a broad stone pavement, 
dividing the grass plat, was far otherwise surmounted. 
There, conspicuous in the centre, was the family achieve- 
ment, deeply and richly carved, and still almost uninjured 
by Time's " effacing fingers." It had evidently been 
cleared even of late from the encroaching ivy ; but I 
smiled to perceive, that one idle tendril, insinuating itself 
round the border of the shield and through the open 
fretvvork of the coronet, had crept up to the very top of 
the proud nodding plume, and flaunted as if triumphantly, 
above its loftiest bend. Passing under that second arch, 
we found ourselves in a second court, of the same dimen- 
sions, and nearly similar to the first, only that we now 
fronted the doorway of the mansion, and its principal bay 
windows. In one corner too, adjoining the house, arose a 
slender turret, within an arched hollow of which a great 
bell was visible, and above appeared the face of an old 
clock. In the opposite angle of the square, flourished a 
large white rose-tree, which had been trained far along the 
side Vv^a Jl of the court, and also against the house itself up to 
the very parapet. The elegant trailer was now covered 
with its pale blossoms, those and the light green leaves 
beautifully harmonizing with the quiet colouring of the old 
stone wall, and the general tone of chastened repose char- 



70 CHURCHYARDS. 

acterizing the whole — a repose unbroken, though bright- 
ened into mellow richness, by the amber hue of sunset, re- 
flected on the long low front of the ancient dwelling, tint- 
ing its grey walls with a soft warm cream colour, gilding 
the projecting stonework of the rich bay windows, the den- 
tated edges of the parapet, and the angles and pinnacles of 
the little turret. The grass plats were thrown into deep 
shadow by the surrounding wall, except that one broad sun- 
beam, stealing in under the archway, and along the paved 
walk, brightened its soft turf edges into two lines of eme- 
rald velvet, and gleaming onwards, penetrated through the 
open door far into the interior of the mansion. There was 
no stir of life — no sound audible, except the ticking of the 
old turret clock, and the low, broken, tender cooing of a 
few tame pigeons, nestling here and there on the walls and 
parapet, or pattering about the grass plats and pavements 
with their pretty rose-coloured feet, their demure looks, and 
soft, sleek, quaker plumage. Close beside the house-door, 
basking in the warm sunshine, lay a fine old hound — Saga- 
city itself depicted in its grave, mild countenance, its close 
hung ears, and long dewlaps, and in the meditative expres- 
sion of its half-closed eyes. He lay there as motionless as 
his stone prototype, stretched out at the feet of grim Sir 
Richard, in Halliburn Church, and it was rather an evidence 
of the perfect security of that quiet dwelling and its venera- 
ble inmates, than of faithless guardianship in the old house- 
hold Argus, that he showed no signs of hostility at our ap- 
proach, nor otherwise noticed us than by half raising him- 
self, with a look of courteous invitation, and wagging his 
tail, when, on the encouragement of that dumb welcome, 
we ventured near enough to pat his sleek, old head. 

We looked about us — at the upper and lower windows 
— and through the open doorway, into a broad low, vault- 
ed stone passage, or vestibule, terminating in the middle of 
the house in another of similar construction, intersecting it 
at right angles. No living soul was visible. We stepped 
over the threshold to reach the knocker of the heavy door, 
flung back against the inner wall. It was a huge massy door 
of oak planks laid obliquely, and almost blackened by age. 



CHAPTER VII. 71 

studded all over with great iron knobs, and further strength- 
ened by bars and enormous hinges of the same. The knocker 
was an uncouthly fashioned lump of iron, and fell from our 
hand with a dead sullen sound, when, after a moment's hes- 
itation, (for it seemed almost sacrilegious to disturb that 
peaceful silence,) we ventured to strike two strokes on the 
old door. Not even an echo replied to our summons — no, 
nor to a second, nor a third appeal. 

No bell was visible, save that in the clock-turret, and 
there appeared no visible means of pulling, what neverthe- 
less was probably the usual announcement of visiters. 

Loth were we to relinquish our hope of being admitted 
to see the interior of the house ; and, after a moment's con- 
sultation, two of us— the two boldest of our party-— agreed 
to steal in, down that inviting passage, in quest of its living 
inmates, if such there were, while the other two more dis- 
creetly re-trode their way to the outer demesne, to ask in- 
formation of the haymakers. You and I, Lilias, were the 
daring twain who went in to spy out the land — I foremost 
in the bold intrusion, but so cowardly withal, that I stole 
along as motionless as the yellow sunbeam that gleamed 
onward before us, like a golden clue, quite to the extremity 
of the first broad passage, and across the second, even to 
the opposite wall, aga,inst which it flashed upward with a 
paler ra)'-, melting gradually into the natural colour of the 
grey ston^ and the deep shadows of the vaulted roof. Ar- 
rived at the termination of that first passage, the second 
presented to our view, at one end, the perspective of a half- 
closed door-— at the other, a third intersecting vaulted way, 
through which again the cheerful sunshine streamed, from 
some unseen hilet, across the darkness of the central pas- 
sage. My companion, hesitating to proceed further, slowly 
retreated towards the outer door, while I, with true female 
perseverance, looked, and longed, and lingered, yet, " let I 
dare not, wait upon I would, like the poor cat i' th' adage." 
And, lo ! while I stood there, that very animal, a fine, large, 
demure-looking tortoise-shell, came stealing into sight, just 
in the stream of light which darted down the further pas- 
sage. Motionless as I stood, the keen-eyed prowler caught 



72 CHURCHYARDS. 

a glimpse of me, and there she stopped for a moment, peer- 
ing with suspicious keenness, her long body drawn out to its 
utmost extent, and to the thinness of a weasel, her eyes 
glittering like fire stones in the sunny ray, one velvet fore- 
paw cautiously advanced, the other delicately curling in- 
ward, till, crouching gradually to the very ground, she 
slipped away with the swiftness of lightning, and vanished 
as noiselessly. The glimpse of that living creature lured 
me onwards, however ; for I thought, by following her 
track, I might possibly find my way to the kitchen or offi- 
ces. I was not deceived in my conjecture. The first turn- 
ing to the right afforded to my choice two open door- ways, 
one leading into a kitchen, the other into a small wainscoted 
chamber, looking like a housekeeper's room. I turned into 
the former — a fine old-fashioned place, with a huge gaping 
fire-place ; deep narrow windows in the thick walls — old 
oak benches and tables, vv^ith voluted legs, braced together 
with massive bars — ranges of bright pewter and fine old 
delft — huge round dishes, with scalloped edges — antique 
tea-kettles — spits on which an ox might have been roasted 
whole — coffee-pots, and chocolate-pots, and posset-pots, and 
porringers, and pipkins, little squat things upon three feet, 
that looked as if they could toddle about by themselves — 
and vessels and utensils of all shapes and sizes, wares, and 
metals, whose proper use it would have puzzled any soul to 
determine, save he, that wight well versed in ancient lore, 
who has written so learnedly on culinary antiquities. I 
could have worshipped the very pot-lids ! But there was 
no time to indulge the idolatrous longing, and alas ! no crea- 
ture visible — no living creature but my tortoise-shell guide, 
who had taken up her station before the glowing wood fire 
on the hearth, over which, suspended by a monstrous crook, 
hung a great black tea-kettle, spitting and sputtering in 
concert with the drowsy hum of Madam Grimalkin. " I 
took but one look, and then tore myself away," peeping for 
a moment, as I passed it, into the adjoining small apart- 
ment. That was also vacant — but through the wide lat- 
tice window I spied a small green court, bordered under the 
surrounding walls with beds of sweet and useful herbs and 



CHAPTER VII. 73 

shrubs, and a few flowers — coxcombs and love-lies-bleeding- 
were trailing on the bright smooth turf — Two sweet bay- 
trees flourished in opposite corners, and everlasting peas 
clung to the wall, and here and there a fine old rosemary, 
and many sweet old-fashioned herbs. Peppermint and 
basil, and sweet marjoram, and fragrant lavender, had their 
place amongst polyanthuses and sweet-williams, within the 
feathery fringe of London pride. 

Another, and another look, I stole through the open lat- 
tice, at that lovely little garden. 

The possession of such a one would have satisfied all my 
ambition as a landholder, but I called to mind the tenth 
commandment, and turned hastily away to rejoin my friends 
without. They, meanwhile, had been successful in their 
application to the haymakers, and I met them re-entering 
the second court, accompanied by a little old humpbacked 
dame, with small, twinkling, three-cornered, blue eyes, with 
red rims, and two pink puckered cheeks, like frost-bitten 
pippins. She looked like one of the appurtenances of the 
place, and seemed familiar with everything relating to " the 
family." From her we learned, that the whole domestic 
establishment, (now reduced to a very few servants,) had 
turned out into the hay-field, with the exception of the 
housekeeper, who had walked into the village, "Miss Grace's 
maid," (for so the aged dame called her still more aged 
mistress,) who was sitting in her lady's sick-chamber, and a 
footman, who was somewhere about the offices, she sup- 
posed, and whom she would seek out, and send to us. So 
we stood quietly waiting in this beautiful court-yard, ca- 
ressing the old dog, and examining the rich bay windows, 
while the dame passed into the house, on the mission she 
had undertaken in our service. 

Whoever would know more of Halliburn House, will wait 
with us, till we learn the result of her embassy. 



74 CIIUHCIIYARDS. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Our old woman was so long absent on her mission, that I 
suspect the footman she went in search of was also to be 
summoned from the hay-cart, or the rick-burton. At last, 
however, he made his appearance from the interior of the 
house, shrugging iip, as he came towards us, (as if hastily 
slipped on,) a long brown livery-coat, ample enough in its 
dimensions to have served him for a surtout, and so gor- 
geously trimmed with broad blue and orange lace, and silver 
tags, as to be little in keeping with his grey worsted hose, 
clumsy hobnailed shoes, and soiled cravat, loosely knotted 
about the open shirt-collar. His honest, ruddy, shining 
face, gave evidence TDeside, that he had been hastily callel 
off from his rural labour ; and his straight yellow hair was 
pasted down on his forehead, but not by the artificial me- 
dium of huile antique or pommade au jasmin. We set him 
down for the grandson or great-nephew of some old steward 
or butler ; and, through all its native rusticity, there was a 
respectful intelligence in his manner of replying to our 
queries, which proved hira to have had " his bringing up" 
* in the well-ordered household of an old-fashioned English 
gentleman. We had further evidence of this as he escorted 
us through the apartments we were permitted to see, and 
pointed out to our notice, in a modest, unobtrusive manner, 
very different from the general style of guides at show- 
houses, such things as were most worthy of remark, and 
those amongst the pictures and portraits as were considered 
most interesting. To our first application to be allowed 
to see the interior of the house, we received for answer, that 
it was seldom shown to strangers, and just then that Mrs. 
De la Vere was seriously ill : he feared it would be impos- 
sible to admit us ; but if we pleased to send in our cards, 
his lady might possibly give orders that we should be showA 



CHAPTER VIII. 75 

through the lower apartm ent.s. We gave hi rn our names 
accord injilv, and in a few minutes he returned with the de- 
sired permission. 

Proceeding through the vestihule, he led us down that 
right-hand passage to the door I had remarked in my iate 
exploring tnirib. It opened into a sort of anti-room, which 
looked rather like a small entrance hall to some forester's 
lodge, for it wa.s hung about with all sorts of irr^plernents for 
rural sports — guns, fishing-rods, fowling-nets, landing-nets 
— spurs, ?jits, and snaffles, of all sorts and fashions — deers' 
antlers, stuffed birds and vermin — and pictures of dead game, 
dogs and horses, and of varioas memorable fox-chases ; and 
a variety of incongruous articles of furniture were here also 
collected together, as if useless at the present day, but too 
sacred as ancient relics to be more irreverently disposed of. 
Amongst others, I noticed a great old beehive porter's chair, 
in which was comfortably cradled a large grey and white 
cat, with a Utter of kittens : and hard by its venerable con- 
temporary, a heavy, high-backed, narrow-bottorned, tapestry 
settee, with one arm and five legs, the sixth wanting — the 
said arm, a bare, lean, wooden limb, poking out from 'the 
tapestry, in guise of certain human elbows, that I have seen 
protruding from female sides, over which one longed to draw 
down the puckered-up apology for a sleeve, that looked like 
the puffed-out handle of a basket-hilted sword — desperate 
inroads had been made by the devouring moth in the 
wrought covering of that disabled veteran. They had eaten 
up three-fourths of Holofernes' head, the hea/l and legs of 
Judith's maid, and the best part of Judith herself : and yet 
we contrived to make out the story at a first glance, so keen 
was our antiquarian discrimination. 

Through this museum of ancient relics, we passed on into 
a second chamber, the first glimpse of which drew from as 
a simultaneous exclamation of delight. Stepping over its 
threshold, we seemed suddenly transported out of these stu- 
pid commonplace modern times, into that old world of ro- 
mance and chivalry, which looks so picturesque through the 
mellow haze of antiquity. It was a long vaulted chamber, 
terminating, at the further end, in a wide and beautiful bay 



76 churchyards! 

window, one of those that looked into the interior court- 
yard. The walls were panelled with some light-coloured 
wood, beautifully veined and polished, and wrought out in 
the richest and most fanciful carved work in the deep cor- 
nices, and the mouldings round the compartments. The 
vaulted ceiling was also groined in compartments of the 
most curious and intricate workmanship ; the darker wood 
whereof the ground-work was composed, finely relieving the 
pale groining, and showing to the greatest advantage the 
minutest beauties of its elegant combinations. The floor 
was tesselated in a pattern of large octagons, filled up with 
small checkers alternately red and yellow, and surrounded 
by borders of a running chain- work, a deeper edge of which, 
with some additional ornamental stripes, ran round the whole. 
Mantelpieces, brackets, screens, chairs, table — every thing 
was in keeping in that delightful chamber : and it was hung 
round with portraits, all interesting from their antiquity, and 
a few especially so, as rare and curious specimens of ancient 
art. There were two Holbeins, flat, shadowless, edgy com- 
positions, but characteristic of the unquestionable merit of 
the artist, and as portraits deeply interesting. They were 
those of Elizabeth, th^ the Lady Elizabeth, and of her bro- 
ther, the young royal Edward, (that brightest gem of Eng- 
land's buried hopes,) of whom the world was not worthy, 
neither the inheritance of a mortal crown. The effigies of 
many De la Veres, and of worthies lineally and collaterally 
allied to them, were ranged in the other compartments ; and 
I was particularly struck with that of a fair young creature 
in the earliest bloom of womanhood, whose full heavy eye- 
lids cast the shadow of their long lashes on her soft pale 
cheek, as she looked down upon the white rose her delicate 
fingers were inserting in the jewelled stomacher. "Ah !" 
thought I, " that must be the fair Agnes ; and that picture 
must have been finished on her nineteenth birthday ; and 
on that very day, fell from that same white rose, the leaves 
found so lately in that old prayer-book." Having thus ar- 
ranged the story entirely to my own satisfaction, I should 
not have thanked any body for telling me I was mistaken — 
so I asked no questions. I could have dreamt away hours 



CHAPTER VIII. 77 

and hours — ay, days and days, in that interesting chamber ; 
but the door through which we were to pass into a third 
apartment was ah*eady open, and I could only linger for a 
moment on the threshold to indulge in a farewell survey. 
From that door of communication, one looked down the 
whole length of the room to the beautiful bay window — 

" A slanting^ ray of evening light 

Shoots through the yellow pane ; 
And makes the faded crimson bright, 

And gilds the fringe again. 
The window's Gothic framework falls 
In oblique shadows on the walls. 
How many a setting sun had made 
That curious lattice- work of shade !" 

I never beheld a chamber so adapted for the retreat of a 
studious, meditative man — so quiet, so solemn, so almost 
holy, yet untinctured with gloom, was the character of chas- 
tened repose that pervaded it ! Looking down from that 
further end, where I stood in shadow, it required no strong 
effort of imagination to conjure up forms of the long-depart- 
ed — a visionary group — harmonizing with the scene, the 
surrounding objects, and the mellow richness of that sunset 
hour. Place but a pile of ancient tomes on that carved ta- 
ble near the window, a roll or two of vellum, and an antique 
standish, and in that high-backed crimson chair a fair young 
lady, " of a sweet, serious aspect," and beside her a venera- 
ble old man, to whose grave, pleasant countenance her eyes 
are raised with a questioning look of sweet intelligence, 
while the forefinger of her small white hand points out a 
passage in that open folio, whose crabbed character can be 
no other than Greek. And now she looks up at that oppo- 
site picture of the young princely Edward, and the eyes of 
her venerable companion follow the direction of hers ; and 
then a glance of sympathetic pleasure is exchanged, that 
tells they are discoursing of England's hope. And, see ! a 
slanting sunbeam stealing upward across the old man's 
snowy beard, plays on her silken ringlets of paly gold, and 



78 CHtmcHrARDs. 

on the dazzling whiteness of her innocent brow, investing it 
with seraphic glory ! Master and pupil they must be, that 
interesting pair ; master and pupil — the learned and the 
lovely — the beauty of vouth and age ! Who other than the 
Lady Jane Grey, and her venerable Ascham 1 All this 
passed before the eyes of my imagination in about the same 
space of time that it took the Sultan to dip his head into the 
pail of water, or the Dean of Badajoz to turn that wonder- 
ful page, in the mere act whereof he passed through all 
grades of ecclesiastical rank, even to the chair of St. Peter, 
before Dame Jacintha had put down the second parti'idge to 
roast. 

My recall from the realms of magic was less disagreeable 
than the worthy dean's, however, as casting behind me "one 
longing, lingering glance," I followed my friends into that 
third apartment, which had the appearance of being the 
common sitting-room of the ancient lady of the mansion. 
Our guide called it the drawing-room ; and, compared with 
those of the suite we had just seen, its fitting up might have 
been called almost modern. High panelled wainscoting, 
painted white, with gold mouldings, and the walls above — 
the narrow strip of wall — covered with a once-costly India 
paper, the large running pattern of which, on a pale yellow 
ground, was of scrawly branches, with here and there a 
palm-leaf and a flower, and birds, butterflies, and flying jars 
and baskets, all edged and veined with gold, dispersed over 
the whole in regular confusion. The high carved mantel- 
piece was decorated by two stupendous girandoles, and 
loaded with precious porcelain monsters, and other antique 
china ; as was likewise a curious old Japan cabinet at the 
further end of the apartment. There was only one table 
in the room — (Oh, Gothic drawing-room !) — a very small 
inlaid Pembroke table, placed geometrically in the* centre 
of a rich, square Turkey carpet, which reached not within 
a yard of the skirting-board. There were no volumes of 
the poets splendidly bound — no elegant inkstands and mo- 
rocco blotting-books — no silver-clasped albums — no musical- 
boxes, and agate-boxes, and ivory-boxes, and filigree-boxes, 
and pincushions in the shape of lyres, and penwipers in the 



CHAPTER VIII. 79 

shape of butterflies, and foreign curiosities, and curious non- 
descripts, disposed with happy carelessness and picturesque 
effect on that same table. No — sacred was its polished 
surface from all such profane litter — inviolate, no doubt, 
since its creation, from all uses save those for which it was 
especially ordained — to receive the silver tea-tray every eve- 
ning duly as the clock struck six, and the chased tea-kettle 
and lamp, and the two rare old china plates of rich seed- 
cake, and wafer-bread and butter. 

There were two settees in the room, not dragged out 
higgledy-piggledy into the middle of the floor, according to 
the indecorous fashion of our degenerate days, but soberly 
and symmetrically placed on either side the old cabinet, 
from which, and from the wall behind them, in all likeli- 
hood they had never been divorced since their first estab- 
lishment there. Noways resembling our square deep sofas, 
loaded with down-cushions, or our Grecian couches, or lux- 
urious Ottomans, these venerable mmovables, with their four 
little brown legs with claw-feet — (no "wheeling" them 
round — they must have walked, if they had moved at all) — 
their hard narrow seats, and high upright backs, sloping 
down at the sides into two little wings, spread out hke those 
of an old buggy, looked just big enough to contain one lady 
with a hoop, or, haply, a pair of courting lovers ; the fair 
one, perchance, in a full-trimmed yellow sacque, with deep 
ruffles, and peaked shoes, the points of which, " like little 
mice, peep out" from underneath the pinked and crimped 
furbelowed petticoat, and her hair strained up so tight over 
a high cushion, parapeted with little flowers and bodkins, and 
one small ostrich feather drooping coquettishly over the left 
ear, as to draw up the outer corners of her eyes like button- 
holes, adding infinite piquancy of expression to the sweet 
simpering modesty with which she afiects to look down on 
that great green fan. " Then the lover," in a bag and soh- 
taire, a pea-green silk coat, lined with jonquil, an embroi- 
dered waistcoat, with prodigious flaps, languishing towards 
her — the off-leg sticking straight out like the leg of a wood- 
cock — one arm supported on the back of the settee, the 
other, the ruffled hand at least, with a brilliant rinff on the 



80 CHURCHYARDS. 

crooked-up little finger, presenting a full-blown rose to the 
goddess of his idolatry, while he warbles in falsetto, 

" Go, rose ! my Chloe's bosom grace !" 

Many such tender passages, between the former occu- 
pants of these old settees, were doubtless rehearsed thereon 
in the " mellow days" of generations past. To far other 
purposes were they now devoted. On one of them we re- 
marked a little short black satin cloak, lined with squirrel 
skin, and edged with ermine all round, and at the arm- 
holes. It was carefully laid over one elbow of the settee, 
against which rested a tall ivory gold-headed walking-stick ; 
and upon the cloak was deposited a very small shallow- 
crowned bonnet, also of black satin, lined with white ; a 
deep lace curtain round the queer, little, flat poke, and no 
indication of strings — the cockernonny being evidently 
fixed on, when worn, by a couple of black corking-pins, 
which were, indeed, stuck in readiness in a pair of long, 
brown, snufi'-colour gloves, laid palm to palm beside the 
bonnet — the tip of the forefinger and thumb wanting from 
the right hand glove. 

There were three windows in the room looking into a 
fourth court, so far differing from the others, that the outer 
wall consisted of a mere pediment, finished by a stone bal- 
ustrade, and opening into a fine orchard by a wrought-iron 
gate. On the massy side-pillars of the gateway, and all 
along the balustrade, were ranged stone vases filled with 
white lilies, hollyhocks, red and yellow marvels of Peru, and 
branching larkspurs ; and in the centre of the grass-plot 
stood a fine old sundial on its rich carved spiral pedestal. 
Such was the " look-out" from those three windows. Be- 
tween them were two pier-glasses in deep carved gilt frames, 
having branches for lights affixed to them. Underneath 
were two marble slabs ; on one of which were very method- 
ically arranged a Bible and Common Prayer-Book, Mrs. 
Glass's Cookery, Broome's Poems, the Book of Martyrs, 
Pamela, " A Funeral Sermon on the Death of the Lady 
Cuts," Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, Jeremy Taylor's Golden 



CHAPTER VIII. 81 

Grove, " The Tete-d- Tete Magazine," and the Red Book for 
the year 1790. On the other stood a very antique-looking 
embossed silver salver, bearing two delicately transparent 
chocolate cups of eggshell china, yet exhaling the perfume of 
the grateful beverage they had recently contained, and a 
chased gold-handled knife lay beside a very inviting rich 
seed-cake, on a fine old china plate. Beneath those two 
pier tables stood two most magnificent china jars, contain- 
ing such pot-pourris as could hardly have been concocted 
with the cloves, roses, and gillyflowers of these degenerate 
days — " Poperies," as I once heard the word pronounced by 
a worthy old gentlewoman, who believed, doubtless, that the 
fashion of those fragrant vases had been imported among 
us from the Vatican by some patriotic traveller, who had 
begged a receipt from the Pope, just as she would beg Mrs. 
Such-a-one's receipt for " mock-turtle," or " calves' head 
surprised." Before either end-window was placed a small 
claw-table, or stand, supporting, one, a glass globe with gold 
fish, the other a splendid gilt wire cage, containing an old 
grey parrot with gouty legs, who sat winking and blinking 
in his swing, croaking every now and then an unintelligible 
something, except that once or twice he articulated, very 
distinctly — " Pretty Miss Grace ! — -Poor Puss ! — Noble Sir 
Richard!" 

A few framed pictures and fancy pieces were hung 
round the room in a straight line, very little below the 
cornice. There was a basket of artificial flowers, delicate- 
ly and beautifully wrought from raised card. A shell-piece 
equally ingenious. A stuffed kingfisher, and a ditto cock- 
atoo to match ; and betwixt the twain, a landscape worked 
with black silk upon white satin, representing a castle with 
four towers, like pepper-boxes. A rock with a Iree upon it, 
the sea washing its base, done in little zig-zag waves in her- 
ring-bone, and a tall three-decker overtopping rock, tree, 
and castle, sailing in stern foremost, " The Cressy" being 
worked thereon in letters as long as the castle windows. 
In one corner of the picture, modestly wrought into the 
basement of the castle, was the name of the fair artist, 
" Grace De la Vere, her work, June 10, 1760." And that 



82 CHURCHYARDS. 

miracle of female taste and ingenuity was not without it^ 
pendant. Another picture, wrought with the same mate- 
rials, on a similar ground, and in a style as fancifully chaste, 
but of more ambitious character. It was a scripture-piece, 
showing forth (as the beholder was considerably informed 
by a labelled inscription at the top, festooned up by two lit- 
tle cherubims, one of whom was also slily puffing out in 
one corner the name of " Gertrude De la Vere,") the find- 
ing of Moses in the bulrushes— a stupendous piece ! There 
stood the Egyptian princess and her maidens, and the bul- 
rushes, (marvellous tall ones they were !) all in a row, like 
four-and-twenty fiddlers. And lo ! Pharaoh's daughter was 
depicted in a hoop and lappets, and having on her head the 
crown-royal ; and then the genius of the artist had blazed 
out in a bold anachronism, having designed that goldei^ 
circlet in the fashion of an English ducal coronet, crested 
with the five ostrich plumes of the De la Veres ! And then 
one of the attendant damsels, agenouilUe before her royal 
mistress, was handing up to her little Moses in his reedy 
ark, in semblance very like a skinned rabbit in a butter- 
basket. And then his sister, Jochebed, was seen sprawling 
away in the background like a great mosquito sailing off in 
the clouds ; and the clouds were very like flying apple- 
dumplings — and the whole thing was admirable ! prodigious I 
inimitable ! and wellnigh indescribable, though, to the ex- 
tent of my feeble powers, I have essayed to do it justice. 
Moreover, there stood in that apartment two large square 
fire-screens, worked in tent-stitch ; and so well were they 
wrought, and so well had the worsteds retained their colours, 
that the large rich flowers in their fine vases — the anemo- 
nes, roses, jonquils, and gillyflowers, seemed starting from 
the dark ground of the canvass. On one of those screens, 
close to the fire-place, hung a capacious white network bag, 
lined with glazed cambric muslin, and fringed all round ; it 
hung by one string only, so that a shuttle and a ball of 
knotting had fallen out from it on a chair alongside. 
There were a few grains of dust on that hard snowball, and 
on the blue damask chair-cushion, but they were of a na- 
ture that set me sneezing, when I took up, with a feeling of 



CHAPTEK vni. 83 

melancholy interest, the monotonous work which had pro- 
bably constituted, for so many silent hours, the chief and 
only amusement of the solitary old lady. That sprinkling 
of snufF, and the scarcely extinguished ashes in the grate, 
(the ashes of a July fire !) looked as if she had recently oc- 
cupied the apartment ; and on enquiring of the servant, we 
were told that she had been down that afternoon for a very 
short time, but that the exertion had quite overpowered her, 
and she had returned so ill to her chamber, that it was 
doubtful whether she would ever again leave it in life, 
" There had been a great change of late in his lady," the 
man added ; and the parson and the old housekeeper had at 
last prevailed on her to let them send for a distant relation 
of the family's, on whom indeed the property was entailed, 
which very circumstance had hitherto excluded him from 
Halliburn House ; as Mrs. Grace had been wont to say, "it 
would be time enough for him — a Ravenshaw ! — to come 
and take possession, when the last De la Vere was laid in 
her cold grave," 

I could not help thinking of this Mister Richard Raven- 
shaw with a sort of jealous avenion, as if I, too, were a last 
lineal descendant of the old race whose name was so soon 
to be extinct in their ancient inheritance. 

Slowly, thoughtfully, almost sadly, we retraced back our 
steps to the door of entrance. Just as we reached it, the 
last sunbeam was shrinking away from under the archway 
of the outer court, and the old turret-clock struck out the 
eighth iiour of the evening. Its tone was peculiarly mel- 
low, deep, and solemn ; or perhaps the stillness of the place 
and of the hour, the shadows that were falling round, and 
the corresponding seriousness of our feelings and thoughts, 
combined to swell and modulate a common sound into one 
of solemn intonation. It must have penetrated, however, 
(through that deep quietness,) into every corner of the marir 
sion, and was heard, doubtless, in the sick chamber. How 
many De la Veres had listened to that warning voice ! Of 
how many had it proclaimed the hours of their birth, and of 
their death ! — the setting forth of the marriage-train, and 
the departure of the funeral procession ! By how many 



84 CHURCHYARDS. 

had its strokes been numbered with youthful impatience, 
and eager hope, and joyful expectation ! By how many 
more with sad foreboding, and painful weariness, and sor- 
rowful retrospection ! By how many a quick ear and beat- 
ing heart, long since stopped with dust and cold in the 
grave ! And still at its appointed hour that restless voice 
resounded — and still it told its awful tidings to a descend- 
ant of the ancient race — to " the dull cold ear" of age of 
the last living De la Vere ! A few more circles yet to be 
revolved by those dark hands around the dial-plate, and she 
too would have closed her account with Time, and the 
solemn hour of its summing up would be sounded forth by 
that iron tongue through the quiet courts of Halliburn, and 
over its venerable woods ! Then, methought, fain would I 
silence for ever the voice from that old turret, that never 
sound thereof should announce the arrival of an alien and 
a stranger, to take rule and lordship over the lands of the 
De la Veres, and possession of their antique dwelling-place. 



CHAPTER IX. 85 



CHAPTER IX. 

I HAVE no very poetical fancies about my last earthly rest- 
ing-place — at least no Cockney poetical fancies. It would 
afford me no particular satisfaction to know that my ashes 
shall repose in the centre of a sweet little pet island, (as the 
young ladies say,) like a green velvet pincushion in the 
middle of a beautiful pond inhabited by Muscovy ducks, 
and frilled round with lilacs and laburnums — that an urn of 
the purest alabaster and most classical form, appropriately 
inscribed with a few words, condensing volumes of simple 
pathos, shall mark the consecrated spot overhung by the 
vegetable weepers of the pale pensile willow. " All this to 
know," would afford me very little satisfaction ; yet I am 
by no means without my prepossessions on this matter — 
equally absurd ones, perhaps, if subjected to the severe test 
of reason, and too much divested of sentimental elegance, 
to interest the feelings of refined taste. 

I would fain lie down to rest under the same sod which 
has received the deposit of my kindred earth. It is in vain 
that I argue with myself: What matters where the poor 
frame shall return to corruption, from which its immortal 
inhabitant is departed ? What matters it how far we sleep 
asunder from those beloved in life — when it is but for the 
night of slumber — when, at the dawn of the eternal day, the 
same clarion shall awaken all at the same moment, and as- 
semble us together from the remotest ends of the earth, and 
from the unfathomed depths 6f the great sea ? It is all in 
vain that I thus argue with myself, and in my wiser mo- 
ments strive to think thus. Nature's resistless pleading— 
her tender infirmity, triumphs over the cold suggestions of 
reason ; and my heart cherishes the fond anticipation that 
I may be gathered in death to the sepulchre of my people. 
— Moreover, I would fain make my bed with the lowly in 
8 



S8 CMtECItlfARDg. 

death — I would fain be laid decently at rest — not withiil 
the walls of my parish church— polluting the holy temple 
with corruption — but in its outer court, the common burial- 
ground, in the midst of those of all stations, whose faces 
have been famiUar to me, whether as those of friends, neigh- 
bours, or acquaintances, or as hearers of the same word, 
guests at the same altar with me, partakers of the same 
cup, professors of the same faith, sharers in the same hopes, 
believers in the same resurrection. Amongst these would 
I lie down undistinguished, v/ith no other monument than 
a plain headstone — no other covering than the green turf. 
Let no cold heavy tomb be laid upon its soft light texture. 
Methinks I would not have even my grave excluded from 
the bright sunbeams and the blessed air, whose sweet influ- 
ences are to me the elixir of life. 

Such are the most romantic fancies I have ever indulged 
with regard to my allotted place of sepulchre. But I will con- 
fess one other weak prejudice relating to it. I have a horror, 
an inexpressible horror, of being com.mitted to the earth of a 
London cemetery : — those dungeons of death — those black, 
dismal, wall-imprisoned fields of corruption, more abhorrent 
to my feelings than the Neapolitan pits of promiscuous se- 
pulchre, or those appalling receptacles of mortality, where 
the dead of the Parsees are left exposed to blacken in the 
sun, or to gorge the carrion birds, who gather unmolested 
to their accustomed banquet. A London burying-ground 
is more horrible than these. There the stillness of death is 
indeed appalling, contrasted with the surrounding ceaseless 
roar of the living multitude — the stir of the vast city, pour- 
ing through all its avenues the tide of restless population. 
Those gloomy wall-surrounded fields of death are not, how- 
ever, the most gloomy burial-grounds contained in the me- 
tropolis. I have passed some old black-looking parish 
churches — in the city, I think — half buried in their adjoin- 
ing small crowded cemeteries — so crowded, it is frightful to 
think of it — elevated high above the dark narrow street — 
generation on generation — tier on tier — coffin on coffin piled, 
heaped up one above the other with unseemly haste — a 
mound of decomposed mortality, at thought of which, of the 



CHAPTER IX. 87 

more recent deposits in particular, imagination recoils, and 
the heart sickens. And then those dingy tombstones, with 
the black, filmy, sooty pall clinging about them ! those dis- 
mal vaporous hangings! that rank black grass! those long 
yellow sickly nettles ! and those pale livid fungi, looking 
like pestilent excrescences, the horrid fruitfulness of that 
tainted mould ! — I have hurried past those dismal recepta- 
cles with averted eyes, and restrained respiration, as from 
the vicinity of \ pest-house. And yet once — once indeed 
— I lingered long and voluntarily within the precincts of St. 

. But I will not name the church. My visit was 

to one of its surrounding graves, to which I had been at- 
tracted by some affecting circumstances which had been 
related to me of its poor tenant. England had afforded her 
that last gloomy resting-place, but she was not a native of 
its soil ; and the inscription on the modest headstone placed 
over her remains, told that " Blanche D'Albi, born in 1801, 
in the canton of Zurich, Switzerland, departed this life in 
Lombard-street, London, in the year 1820." Oh, simple 
record ! more eloquent, more touching, than all that poetry 
and sentiment could have woven into the most diffuse epi- 
taph. 

So far from her country, her kindred, and her home — 
taken away so early, in the very bud of life ; there, amongst 
the dust of strangers, under those black walls, beneath that 
rank soil, those baleful weeds, lay the daughter of that lovely 
mountain land, to which, doubtless, in the happy, sanguine 
confidence of youth, she had so often anticipated the rap- 
turous hour of her return. All this, and more than this, was 
suggested to the heart by that brief inscription. But it did 
not tell all. It did not tell that the young creature who 
slept below had been singularly beautiful — of the happiest 
and gentlest nature — engaging to a very unusual degree, the 
darling of fond parents ; the happiest maiden of her happy 

land, the blithest bird of her native mountains, till 

But why not relate at once the few simple notices which 
have fallen in my way, connected with the brief existence 
of the young stranger ? They will form, at best, but an 
imperfect and very eventful story, but such a one as found 



88 CHURCHYARDS. 

its way to my heart, and may interest those whose tastes 
and feelings are yet unperverted by the feverish excitement 
and exaggerated tone of modern fiction. 

Blanche D'Albi, at the time of her decease, had been for 
more than a twelvemonth resident in the family of Mr. 
L , one of the wealthiest merchants in the city of Lon- 
don. She had been engaged as French governess to his 
four little daughters, who were also provided with an Eng- 
lish teacher, and attended by half the masters in the metro- 
polis. The young Swissess had been received on the most 
unexceptionable recommendation, as to character, connex- 
ions, and elegant acquirements ; but nothing more of her 
private history was communicated, than that she was the 
only daughter of a respectable Protestant minister ; that the 
sudden death of both her parents, occurring within a few 
months of each other, had left her, at the age of eighteen, a 
destitute orphan, deprived of the protection of an only bro- 
ther, who, previous to the death of their parents, had taken 
service in the Swiss corps of De Meuron, and had accom- 
panied that regiment to India. So situated, Blanche D'Albi 
had recourse for her future maintenance to the expedient so 
often resorted to, even under happier circumstances, by num- 
bers of her young countrywomen. 

In company with several young persons from her own 
canton, embarked on the same enterprise, and provided with 
such recommendations as could be obtained to mercantile 
houses in London, or to such of their own countrymen as were 
already established there, Blanche bade adieu to her "own ro- 
mantic land ;" and very shortly after her arrival in England, 
it was her good fortune to be engaged in the family of Mr. 

L , where her situation might with truth have been 

called almost enviable, compared with the general lot of 
young persons in the same circumstances. She shared the 
schoolroom, and the task of educating four engaging, spoil- 
ed children, with an elderly English governess, to whose 
domineering, but not harsh temper, she willingly yielded 
supremacy, and was therefore treated by Miss Crawfurd 
with somewhat of the indulgent consideration she would 
have bestowed on an elder pupil. The little girls soon at- 



Chapter ix* 89 

tached themselves fondly to their young, indulgent gover- 
ness, and their affection soon obtained for her all the good- 
will and unbending kindness it was in the nature of Mrs. 
L to confer on any human being in a dependent situa- 
tion. Mr. L , a man of cold and formal manners, fully 

impressed with the sense of his own wealth and consequence, 
but one whose better feelings were not all sacrificed at the 
shrine of Mammon, treated her with invariable and almost 
attentive politeness, during the stated intervals, when, in 
attendance on her young charges, she was admitted to his 
society. It is true, he exchanged but few words with her, 
and those appeared constrained, as if by the latent fear of 
compromising his dignified importance ; but there was a 
gentleness in the tone of his voice when he addressed him- 
self to the timid orphan, and a benevolence in his eyes, 
which carried with them to the young bereaved heart of 
Blanche D'Albi, a far kindlier signification than was implied 
by the mere words of his invaried formal salutation, " I hope 
you are well to-day, Ma'amselle ?" 

Blanche had not only every comfort but many luxuries at 
her command, especially that which she prized beyond all 
others, the disposal of her own time for some hours in the 
evening of each day. Taking all circumstances into con- 
sideration, therefore, the young emigrant might be pro- 
nounced singularly fortunate in having so soon found shel- 
ter in so secure a haven. And she felt that Providence had 
been very gracious to her, and her heart was grateful and 
contented. But was she happy ? Who ever asked that 
question ? Who ever doubted that she was so in a situation 
so favoured with peculiar advantages ? The home she lost, 
the friends she had left, the brother so widely separated from 
her, the recollection of her own dear village, and of her 
young happy years. No one ever inquired into, or inter- 
ested themselves about all these things. No voice inviting 
confidence ever interrupted those deep and silent spells of 
inward vision, when all the past was busy in her heart, and 
one frank kind question, one affectionate word, would have 
unlocked — as from the source of a fountain — all the inge- 
nuous feelings, all the tender recollections, all the anxious 
8* 



90 CHURCHYARDS. 

thoughts and innocent hopes, that wore crowded together in 
that pure sanctuary, cherished and brooded over in secret 
and in silence, till the playful vivacity of her nature (its 
characteristic charm in happier days) was subdued into a 
tone of almost reserved seriousness. At times, during the 
play-hours of the children, when they had coaxed her to 
mingle in their innocent sports — at such times the playful 
beauty of her nature would break out into a gleam of its 
former brightness ; and then her laugh was so joyous, her 
countenance so sparkling, her voice so mirthfully in unison 
with their childish glee, that a stranger would have taken 
her for the eldest sister, and the happiest of those four hap- 
py children. 

Those, also, were among her wliitest moments, when, 
encircled by her young attentive auditory, she spoke to 
them — for to them she could speak of it — of her own native 
land ; of its high mountains, whose tops were white with 
snow in the hottest summer days ; of the seas of ice, with 
their hard frozen ridges ; of its beautiful, clear lakes, on 
one of which she and her little brother had been used to 
row their fairy bark. Of the Chalets, where, in their 
mountain rambles, they had been feasted on rural dainties 
by the hospitable peasants ; of the bounding chamois, and 
of their daring hunters, amongst whom her brother Theo- 
dore, and a young friend of his whom she called Horace, 
had been foremost in bold enterprise ; and then she told 
how, once returning from a long and venturous chase, the 
friends had brought her home a little wounded chamois ; 
and the children never tired of hearing how she had nursed 
and reared, and at last, v/ith success almost unexampled, 
brought to perfect tameness the wild creature of the moun- 
tain ; and how Horace Vaudreuil (they had learned to speak 
his name and that of Theodore fiimiliarly) had encircled its 
slender elegant neck with a small silver collar, on which 
was engraven, ''''TappartieMS a Blanche.^^ 

Once the little inquisitive creatures had innocently ques- 
tioned her about her parents — asking, if she had loved tlicm 
as dearly as they did their papa and mamma ; but then the 
only answer they obtained was, that the mirthful voice of 



CHAPTER IX. 91 

their cheerful playfellow died away into a tremulous, inar- 
ticulate sound ; and that, suddenly liiding her lace on the 
fair bosom of the youngest child, who was seated on her 
lap, she gave way (for the first time before them) to an 
agony of tears and sobs, that wrung their young hearts with 
distressful sympathy, and soon melted them all to tears as 
they clung round her, with their sweet, loving, broken con- 
solations. There is something more soothing in the caress- 
ing tenderness of childish sympathy, than in all the conso- 
latory efforts of mature reason. In the first agony of a be- 
reaved heart, or ratlier when the first benumbing shock is 
passing away, who would not shrink from rational com- 
forters — from persuasive kindness — from the very voice of 
friendship itself, to weep unrestrainedly in the clasping arms 
of an infant, on its pure, innocent bosom ? It is as if a 
commissioned angel spoke peace from heaven — pouring the 
balm of heavenly comfort on a wound too recent to bear a 
touch less gentle, less divine 1 

From that hour the little girls spoke only of Theodore 
and Horace, when, collected round Blanche, they plead- 
ed for one of her "pretty stories about Switzerland." 
From the secret indulgence of tender recollections, and 
dreamy hopes, Blanche insensibly fell into those habits of 
abstraction too common to persons of imaginative minds, 
and deep and repressed sensibility ; and not unfrecjuently 
she drew upon herself the sharp observation of Miss Craw- 

furd, or the cold surprise of Mrs. L , by starting, in 

bashful confusion, at the repetition of some question or re- 
mark which had failed in rousing her attention when first 
addressed to her. It was an evil habit, and Blanche was 
conscious of its being so ; and she listened with penitent 
humility to Miss Crawfurd's school lectures on the "affec- 
tation and ill-breeding of young persons who gave way to 

absence of mind," and to Mrs. L 's wonder at " what 

Mademoiselle could be thinking of." 

What could she be thinking of? — Oh, heavens! in that 
dull square — pacing those formal walks, under those dusty 
trees — in that more dull, more formal drawing-room, wlien 
the prattling tongues of her little charges were no longer at 



92 ' CHURCHYARDS. 

liberty — when she felt herself indeed a stranger and an 
alien — what could she think of, but of the days that were 
past, and of those that might be in store for her, if 
ever .... And then there swam before her eyes visions 
of a white, low dwelling, all embowered in honeysuckle — 
of a little green wicket in a sweet-brier hedge — and of one 
who leant over it, idling away the precious moments, long 
after he had presented the garland or the nosegay, arranged 
for her hair or her bosom ; and then the scene changed to 
a grass-plat and a group of linden-trees, and her own dear 
parents sat under their shade, with other elders of the vil- 
lage, whose children were mingling with her in the merry 
dance on that fine greensward, to the sweet tones of Theo- 
dore's flute ; and then there were parting tears, and inarti- 
culate words — and the agony of young hearts at a first 
separation — and a little boat lessening across the lake — and 
waving hands — and the last glimpse, on the opposite shore, 
of glittering uniforms and waving plumes ; and then there 
was darkness, and fear, and trouble — and the shadow of 
death fell on the dear white cottage, and a sullen bell 
tolled — and, yet again — and one funeral, and then another, 
wound away, from its low entrance, across the grass-plat 
beneath the linden-trees, towards the church, where the 
new minister 

But the fond dreamer shut her eyes to exclude that tor- 
turing sight — and then — and then the harsh voice of some 
cold observer (all voices sound harshly to senses so ab- 
sorbed) recalled her to reality, and to painfully confused 
consciousness of the surprise and displeasure her inatten- 
tion had excited. 

Poor Blanche ! — Thou hadst been the beloved of many 
hearts ! — the darling of some ! — the object of almost exclu- 
sive affection ! — How difficult to be contented with less ! — 
How cold, by comparison, the after-interest we may awaken 
in other hearts — even in gentle and tender ones— whose 
first affections are yet given to dearer claimants ! — How 
hard to endure the measured kindness of mere well-wish- 
ers — the constrained courtesy of well-bred indifference — 
the unintentional slight of the regardless many — the cutting 



CHAPTER IX. 93 

contumely of the malicious few ! — How withering, contrast- 
ed with former looks of love, and its endearing tones, the 
severe glance of a censorious eye — the harsh inflection of 
a reproving voice ! — How bitter to remember all one has 
been to some dear, departed being — and to feel that one is 
nothing, comparatively nothing, to any living creature in 
this wide, wide world ! 

Some of these sad experiences had fallen not unfrequent- 
ly to the lot of the fair orphan — had fallen like ice-bolts on 
the youthful enthusiasm of her confiding nature ; but, 
though checked by that untimely frost, the sensitive blos- 
som had but shrunk inward, nourished in secret by the warm 
well-spring of Hope, which lay hidden in the deep recesses 
of her heart. 

Twice, since her residence in the family of Mr. L , 

the monotonous existence of Blanche had been diversified 
by occurrences of unspeakable importance to her. Twice 
had she received letters from India — voluminous letters, 
penned by more than one hand, though contained in the 
same envelope directed by her brother. She wept abun- 
dantly over th© first of thee© packets over her brother's 

letter — his reply to that in which she had communicated to 
him their mutual loss, and her own plans to seek an honour- 
able subsistence as governess in some English family. It 
is easy to conceive the deeply affecting purport of that fra- 
ternal answer. Even from that fearful distance the hearts 
of the orphans met and mingled. The tears of Theodore 
had blotted the lines, on which those of Blanche fell, as she 
read, like summer rain-drops — as free, as fast, and as kind- 
ly — lightening her heart of the long pent-up load of unpar- 
ticipated grief. 

But Theodore's letter contained one written in a differ- 
ent handwriting ; and though the tears of Blanche still fell 
as she perused those characters, they were the last drops of 
the shower, through which a sunbeam was already break- 
ing. Upon the contents of that packet she might have 
been said to live for many weeks ; for day after day her 
eyes fed upon them, till one of her little, innocent observers 
asked, in a tone of artless sympathy, if she were not tired 



94 CHURCHYARDS. 

of trying to learn all that close, long writing by IiearL 
which had vexed her so much, too, at the first reading. 

The second letters were as eagerly and anxiously opened 
as the former had been. But these were read with glist- 
ening eyes only, while the rekindled light of gladness 
beamed on the ingenuous countenance of Blanche ; and 
sometimes, in the midst of some twentieth re-perusal, as if 
her heart sought sympathy in the exuberance of its happi- 
ness, she would catch up in her arms, and half smother 
with playful kisses, one of the wondering children — as 
ready, however, at least, to share the joy of their young in- 
structress, as to participate in her sorrows. With those last 
letters came an ivory work-box, an elegant oriental toy, 
lined with sandal-wood, and fitted up with many compart- 
ments, each containing some ingenious nick-nack — some 
small tool of fairy workmanship fashioned for a lady's hand, 
or some exquisite essence in itsflacon of gilded glass. The 
delight it was to the inquisitive children to pry, over and 
over again, into every drawer and compartment in this 
beautiful box ! And Blanche was too sweet-tempered to 
refuse the often-asked indulgence ; only »he watched with 
jealous care, lest their little, busy fingers should unwitting- 
ly injure any part of the delicate workmanship ; and if 
Miss Crawfurd was present, she resisted, with evident an- 
noyance, their importunities to be allowed to take out of a 
cunning, secret drawer, (which had not long remained se- 
cret for them,) two beautiful, little pictures — "so beautiful!" 
they said ; " and one so like Ma'amselle !" — That one was 
her brother's miniature ; and when they asked her, if she 
did not love him dearly for sending her such a fine present, 
she smiled and blushed, and simply answered, that she did 
indeed dearly love him. The little girls were not long in 
discovering, moreover, that the return of this dear brother 
had been announced in his last letter. The regiment was 
recalled to Europe, and he wrote on the eve of embarka- 
tion. 

No wonder that, on the evening of that day which had 
brought her such bhssful tidings, the fair face of Blanche 
was radiant with such a glow of happiness as to attract 



CHAPTER IX. 95 

even the passing notice of Mrs. L , and the more be*. 

nevolent observation of her husband, as their young inmate 
with her pupils modestly approached the awful verge of her 
drawing-room circle. The exuberant gladness of her heart 
was longing to communicate and diffuse itself; and the 
look and tone of almost affectionate filial confidence with 

which she replied to Mr. L -'s accustomed salutation, 

was so irresistibly winning, that it drew from him another 
and another sentence, till at last he found himself chatting 
with her, almost with the affectionate familiarity of a father, 
and had actually gone the length of calling her "My dear!" 
without being conscious how insidiously the natural kind- 
liness of his nature had encroached on that dignified 
condescension to which he conceived it proper to confide 
all manifestations of good-will towards his daughters' 
governess. 

Mademoiselle D'Albi's continuance in the evening circle, 
or rather in its outworks, was usually restricted to the space 
of half an hour, while the tea and coffee were carried round, 
and till the bed-time of her pupils, when, with a silent curt- 
BY, she left the drawing-room with them, and having accom- 
panied them to their apartments, joyfully retired to the un- 
molested quiet of her own. But it sometimes happened that 
Mrs. L -'s party being enlivened by (he accession of se- 
veral young persons, music and quadrilles became the order 
of the eveninsr. At such times the talents of Blanche were 
put in requisition, and she was detained to play for the be- 
nefit of the dancers,; whose enjoyment was enhanced in no 
trifling degree by the spirit and correctness of the musician, 
and by the variety of beautiful airs in which she was a pro- 
ficient. Poor Blanche ! how often, in the days that were 
gone, had she tripped it to those very measures- -the admir- 
ed of all eyes, and the beloved of all hearts — amongst the 
lovely and beloved, the happy band of her young compan- 
ions ! It was wonderful (with all those recollections in her 
heart) how she could sit before that instrument, looking so 
patient and contented, playing cm hour after hour with such 
unerring touch, and unflagging spirit ! Yes — there she sat, 
re.gardless and disreg-arded of every creature in the gay -as- 



96 CHURCHYAKDS. 

semblage — unless it were that every now and then some 
gentleman of the party stole a furtive glance of admiration 
at the lovely foreigner, inwardly desirous, maybe, that he 
could exchange his sprawling, bounding partner, with all her 
newly-imported Parisian graces and frippery clumsily tack- 
ed upon English awkwardness, for that young sylph-like 
creature, so elegant in her unadorned simplicity ; for Blanche, 
still in mourning for her parents, wore a plain black robe ; 
and a profusion of soft, fair, silky ringlets, one thick glossy 
braid encircling and confining them like a diadem, were the 
only decorations of a head remarkable for its classical beau- 
ty, and the peculiar gracefulness of carriage which was its 
characteristic expression. 

Sometimes also a pair of misses would saunter towards 
her during the intervals of the dance, and drawl out a few 
words of inquiry about some fashionable air ; while their 
eyes were busily engaged in taking notes of the becoming 
manner in which her hair was arranged, and of the foreign 
tournure of her sable dress. 

It so happened, that on the very evening when the heart 
of Blanche was overflowing with its secret hoard of gladness 
— oh, how long had that poor heart been a stranger to such 

blissful feelings ! — Mrs. L 's circle was a large and gay 

one, and a proposal to form quadrilles being suddenly made, 
and as promptly acceded to. Mademoiselle v/as detained to 
take her patient sitting at the pianoforte. She had always 
acceded with willing sweetness to similar requisitions ; but 
this evening she sat down to the instrument with even joy- 
ous readiness, and the exuberance of her happiness found 
expression in such sprightly measures, that her flying fingers 
soon outstripped the common time of the dancers, and many 
breathless calls for moderation were sent towards her from 
the scampering and despairing performers. Then v/ould 
she laugh and blush, and shake her head in playful self-re- 
proach at her own lawless performance, and for a while — 
a very little while — the restless fingers were restrained to 
slower movements ; once or twice she looked towards the 
dancers as if with a vehement longing to spring up and 
mingle in their gay evolutions, but those glances were mo- 



CHAPTER IX. ' 97 

mentary, and her eyes dropped again upon the ivory keys ; 
but such a smihng and half-exuiting playfulness lurked about 
her mouth, as if she were anticipating some hour of future 
gladness, when she should join hands once more in the 
merry dance with the companions of her youth, on the earth 
— the lovely green sward of her own dear country. What- 
ever were the fond reveries of poor Blanche, it is certain 
that her musical task was so unequally performed that eve- 
ning, as to cause much discomfiture among the dancers, at 
length despairingly manifested in their relaxing exertions, 
and in the tedious lounging pauses between the sets. 

During one of these, a small knot of gentlemen stood 

conversing with Mr. L , close to the pianoforte, on 

which, mingled with music-books and manuscripts, lay se- 
veral pamplets and newspapers. One of the gentlemen, 
carelessly glancing his eye over the miscellaneous heap, 
caught up a paper with suddenly-excited interest, exclaim- 
ing — " Ah ! here is already a public account of the melan- 
choly occurrence, of wliich my letters from Madras make 
mention." Then rapidly he read aloud the paragraph, 
which stated that " The regiment de Meuron, being under 
orders for Europe, had been safely embarked on board the 
transports provided for its reception, all but the last .boat, 
consisting of the Lieutenant-Colonel, his lady and their 
family, and two young officers of the regiment, when, by 
some mismanagement, the boat was suddenly upset in that 
tremendous surf; and notwithstanding the exertions of the 
natives on their attending catamarans, every soul perished 
except the wife and youngest daughter of the Colonel, and 
one of the young officers. Lieutenant D'Albi." Then fol- 
lowed the names of those who had found a watery grave ; 
and the gentleman ran them quickly over, till, just as he 
had pronounced that of " Horace Vaudreuil," a sudden 
crash of the piano keys caused a general start, and all eyes 
turning simultaneously towards the young musician, who 
had been awaiting the pleasure of the dancers in silence, 
patient and unnoticed, it was perceived that she had fallen 
forward on the instrument, her face and arms resting on the 
keys, and almost hidden by the redundance of fair soft 
9 



98 CHURCHYARDS, 

ringlets, which had burst in rich disorder from the confining 
braid. 

She was raised up and conveyed to a sofa in a state of 
deathUke insensibihty, from which, after long application of 
various stimulants, she revived only to relapse into succes- 
sive faintings. The family apothecary being summoned, 
by his direction she was conveyed to her chamber and to 
her bed, and his prognostics were unhappily verified towards 
morning, when she awoke from a sort of trance, in which 
she had lain some hours in a high paroxysm of delirious fe- 
ver. Great was the consternation occasioned in the family 

of Mr. L by this sudden seizure of the young creature, 

whose personal importance in the establishment, except in 
relation to the labours of the school-room and the piano, had 
hitherto been very subordinate to that of Mrs L -'s ma- 
caws and Persian cat. 

A peculiar horror of all contagious and infectious disor- 
ders was amongst the many peculiar horrors to which the 

sensitive lady of poor Mr. L was peculiarly liable. It 

was in vain that the worthy man himself, having ascer- 
tained the decided opinion of the apothecary, again and 
again assured her that "Mademoiselle's disorder was a 
brain-fever, which, however likely to terminate fatally, was 
not of a nature to be communicated even to the attendants 
of the sick chamber." These assurances, backed by all the 
apothecary's assertions, were insufficient to allay the lady's 
horrors. " If not now infectious, the disorder might become 
so.;" and then she was convinced "c/Z fevers were catch- 
ing;" and "if Mr. L was so indifferent to her safety, 

she could not think of her children and emulate his heroic 
composure. Not for worlds should they continue in that 
house two hours longer ; and she felt it her duty as a mo- 
ther to be careful, for their sokes, of her own life, and to 
accompany them from that dangerous spot. It was mad- 
ness in Mr. L to stay there, if he would be persua- 
ded ;" but Mr. L was not to be persuaded — so, after 

conscientiously fulfilling her duty as a wife, by pathetically 
warning him of the probable consequences of his obstinacy, 
she bade him farewell with admirable firmness, and after a 



CHAPTER IX, 99 

last parting injunction from the carriage- window, to fumi- 
gate all letters lie might address to her from that house, she 
was driven from the door, and safely and luxuriously lodged 
before evening at her husband's Richmond villa, with her 
children and Miss Crawfurd. Great indeed — unspeakably 
great — " she assured all her friends, was her anxiety on 
Mr. L 's account ; and they might conceive how ago- 
nizing it was to her feelings to leave him in so perilous a 
situation. Had she followed the dictates of her heart — 
But those sweet darlings ! Could she risk the lives of both 
their parents !" And then tears of sensibility trickled from 
her eyes at the idea of their orphan state, had she fondly 
yielded to the temptation of sharing her husband's dan- 
ger, and fallen a victim to the indulgence of her tender 
weakness. 

Mr. L was truly and humanely concerned for the 

distressing situation of poor Blanche. So young ! so fair ! 
so friendless ! so utterly dependent now, in her unconscious 
state, on the mercy and charity of strangers — on the world's 
cold charity. But there are warm hearts amidst the fro- 
zen mass ; and all the kindly feelings of Mr. L 's were 

now called into action by the affecting circumstances of 
that helpless being so cast on his benevolence. He was a 
fond and anxious father ; and as the natural thought sug- 
gested itself, that, in the vicissitudes of human life, a fate 
as forlorn as that of the young foreigner might one day be 

the portion of his own darlings, Mr. L inwardly pledged 

himself to act a parental part by Blanche D'Albi in this 
hour of her utmost need ; and the vow was not less reli- 
giously observed because unuttered to mortal ear, and regis- 
tered in the depths of his own heart. By his order a care- 
ful nurse was provided, and a skilful physician called in, 
when, at the close of the second day from her seizure. Ma- 
demoiselle D'Albi was pronounced by the apothecary to be 
in imminent danger. Dr. M.'s opinion coincided but too 
perfectly with that of his medical subaltern ; and, in spite 
of their united endeavours to save the interesting young 
creature intrusted to their care, it soon became evident that 
the hand of death was on her, and that human art was pow- 



100 CHUKCHYARDS. 

erless to unloose that fatal grasp. Previous to her dissolu- 
tion, she lay for many days in a state of perfect stupor, far 
less painful to contemplate than the previous delirium, during 
which she had talked incessantly with the embodied crea- 
tures of her fancy, rambling volubly in her native tongue, 
and now and then breaking out into snatches of wild song 
or wilder laughter. But at last that fearful mirth died away 
in fainter and fainter bursts ; and broken syllables and in- 
articulate sounds succeeded the voluble speech, like dying 
murmurs of a distant echo; and "then," as the nurse ex- 
pressed it, " she lay as quiet as a lamb" for many, many 
days, with eyes half-closed, but not in slumber, or at least 
only in that slumberous torpor, the gentle harbinger of a 
more perfect rest. 

More than once or twice, or many times, had Mr. L 

visited the sick chamber of poor Blanche, while she lay like 
a waxen image in that deathlike trance. More than once, 
as he stood gazing on that fair, pale face, had large tears 
stolen down his own cheeks — and once, when there was a 
momentary glimmering of hope — a momentary amendment 
of pulse — had he caught the hand of the physician with a 
sudden energy, strangely contrasting his usual habits of for- 
mal reserve — exclaiming, " Save her ! save her, my dear 

sir ! spare no pains, no cost — a consultation perhaps " 

and his agitated voice and incoherent words carried convic- 
tion to the heart of the good doctor, that if half the wealth 

of Mr. L could have purchased the life of Blanche 

D'Albi, he would not have hesitated to make the sacrifice. 

But neither care nor skill, nor aught that wealth could 
command, or kindness lavish, could prolong the days already 
numbered, or reserve the decree that had gone forth. 

Towards the close of the fourteenth day of Blanche's ill- 
ness, the respiration of the unconscious sufferer became 
•quick and laborious, and Dr. M., whose finger was on her 
pulse, directed that the curtains of her bed should be drawn 
aside, and a free current of air admitted through the opened 

windows. Mr. L had entered with the physician, and 

stationing himself at the bed's foot, stood there with folded 
arms, and eyes fixed in sad and hopeless contemplation on 



CHAPTER IX, 101 

the affecting object before him. Though the eyes of Blanche 
were more than half veiled by their full, heavy lids, a streak 
of soft blue was still discernible through the long dark 
lashes, from whence, however, emanated no spark of intel- 
ligence ; and far different from the finely blended rose-hues 
of healthful beauty, was that bright crimson which burned 
in either cheek. Her head was raised a little from the pil- 
low, by the supporting arm of the nurse, who, with her hand 
still at liberty, put aside the deep frill of her cap, and the 
disordered ringlets which had escaped beneath it, that the 
sweet fresh air might visit with its comforting coolness those 
throbbing temples, and that burning brow. It was a beau- 
tiful, mild, warm April evening, redolent of life and joy, and 
Nature's renovation ; and the pale, golden light of an April 
sunset penetrated even through a London atmosphere, and 
amongst a labyrinth of high walls, and blackened roofs, and 
clustering chimneys, into the very chamber of Blanche ; 
and even to that confined chamber, and over those gloomy 
precincts, came the soft breath of spring, breathing delicious 
fragrance, as it was wafted through her open window, over 
a box of mignonette, coaxed into early blossom by the assi- 
duous cherishing of one who had watched over her minia- 
ture garden with the impatient interest of eager childhood. 

The balmy air stole gently, gradually into the sick cham- 
ber, and between the parted curtains of the bed, as though 
it were a thing of intelligence, and came gladly on its bless- 
ed mission, to convey to the dying Blanche the last sooth- 
ing sensation she might yet taste on earth — the odorous 
wafting of her favourite flowers. It came not in vain. As 
the caressing coolness played over her face, and when it had 
wandered a few moments amongst the parted ringlets, her 
quick and laborious breathing became less and less distress- 
ing, and at length inhaling one long and deep inspiration, 
subsided into regular and almost imperceptible respiration, 
like that of a sleeping infant. 

At that moment, there struck up at the farther end of a 

neighbouring street a strain of wild music, from a band of 

itinerant musicians — wandering Savoyards. Wild and 

touching was the strain, as it came mellowed by distance,,, 

9* 



102 CHURCHYARDS. 

and mingled with the evening breeze. It was " Le Rans 
des Vaches." To every son and daughter of Helvetia, a 
spirit-stirring spell, a magic melody, never yet listened to 
unmoved by any wanderer from her mountain land — only 
the insensible ear of death, or of the dying .... but it 
seemed as if perception yet lingered in that of Blanche. 
As the notes of that national air swelled out more and more 
distinctly, a slight tremor passed over her features, and at 
last, as if awakening from a deep sleep, her soft blue eyes 
perfectly unclosed, and glancing upwards towards the fe- 
male form, on whose bosom her head was pillowed, she 
murmured in her own native tongue, " Maman ! bonne 
Maman !" 

As she uttered those few faltering words, her head sunk 
lower upon the nurse's breast, and half turning her face in- 
ward on that kind pillow, like a weary child, the fair eye- 
lids dropped heavily over those soft blue orbs ; but long 
after their lustre was forever shrouded, and long after the 
beautiful lips were closed, and the last breath had escaped 
them in those few touching words, the smile still lingered 
there with which those words were spoken, as if impressed 
by the parting rapture of recognition with the Maternal 
Spirit, permitted possibly to accompany the dark angel on 
his awful mission, to overcome his terrors by her looks of 
heavenly welcome, and receiving from his hands the new 
Celestial, to be its conductress to those abodes of bliss, to- 
wards which, even in their day of mortal probation, the 
pious mother had " trained up her child in the way she 
should go," 



BROAD SUMMERFORU. 103 



CHAPTER X. 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 



In the churchyard of Broad Summerford — But why should 
I affect to describe, as from my own recollection, a place 
with which I am utterly unacquainted except by report t 
For verily, gentle reader, I never set foot in the said church- 
yard — neither in the quiet rectory adjoining thereunto — 
neither in the pretty village wherein they are situated. And 
yet each and all of those localities are as familiar to my 
mind's eye, not only as if I had seen them with the bodily 
organs, but as if I had long sojourned in the parish where 
they lie. And no wonder ; for all those places were de- 
scribed to me at that season of life when imagination, like 
a cloudless mirror, reflects back every object presented be- 
fore it with the faithfulness of truth, and the tablets of me- 
mory receive those proof -impressions, compared with which^ 
the most perfect struck off in later years are faint and spirit- 
less. Besides, the describer was one rich in old tales, and 
family legends, and all sorts of traditionary lore ; one whom 
I could iuten'upt and question, with all the confidence of 
perfect familiarity, and the impetuous curiosity of youthful 
eagerness ; and many a fire-light hour have I sat on the low 
footstool at her feet, listening to stories of past times, and 
departed generations, and scenes and places associated 
therewith, so graphically combined, that the illusion was 
perfect ; and often, in after-life, I have caught myself 
speaking to others of those places, persons, and circumstan- 
ces, as if I had been contemporaneous with the former, and 
familiar with the latter, from personal observation and ex- 
perience. Delightful season ! delicious hours ! ineffaceable 
recollections ! never to be superseded among the heart's 
most precious records, by any after-enjoyment, however ex- 
quisite ! 



104 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XT. 

Far other scenes have I mingled in since then — ^far other 
interests have excited — far other feehngs have engrossed 
me ; but, in weal and in woe — in cloud and in sunshine — 
in tumult and in silence — in crowds and in solitude — often, 
often have I looked back with a sickening heart, a yearning 
tenderness, a bitter joy, to those quiet hours, when my all 
of earthly good — my world of felicity — was comprised in 
such little space — within the walls of that old-fashioned par- 
lour, where the fire-light flashed broad and bright on the 
warm damask curtains, and I sat on that low footstool by 
the hearth, at the feet of one who never tired of telling those 
tales of other days, which I was never weary of listening to. 
Hers was the true graphic art of story-telling. Her por- 
traits lived and breathed ; and, while I hung upon her words 
with mute attention, the long procession of generations gone, 
passed before me — not shadowy phantoms, but substantial 
forms — defined realities— distinguished, each from each, by 
every nice modification of characteristic peculiarity — un- 
cles, aunts and cousins, (a bewigged and brocaded host !) of 
whom most had been gathered, before my birth, to the se- 
pulchre of their fathers, and the remaining few had lived to 
bestow a patriarchal blessing on their infant descendant. 
All these, recalled to earth by the enchanted wand, were 
made to re-act their former parts on the great stage for my 
especial pleasure ; and I became as familiar with the names, 
characters, and persons of those departed worthies, as she 
who really remembered their times, and had been herself the 
youthful darling of their latter days. 

Among those she best loved to speak of was a kind and 
gentle pair^ — an old bachelor, and his twin maiden sister, 
of the name of Scale — relations of my grandmother, who. 
lived out together their long and blameless lives, 

" The world forgetting, by the world forgot," 

in an obscure, quiet village of Somersetshire, called Broad: 
Summerford, of which parish Mr. Scale was the revered a^jid 
faithful pastor for the space of more than half a century. 
"They were the best people in the world," said my dear 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 105 

chronicler ; " and some of the happiest days of my early 
youth were spent at the pleasant rectory of Broad Summer- 
ford. Our good relations had heard that my parents were 
suffering considerable anxiety on my account — my health 
having become so delicate as to indicate symptoms of de- 
cline — and that change of air and scene had been medically 
prescribed for me. The kind souls knew that my father 
and mother could not remove from the small country town 
where circumstances had fixed their residence, without very 
serious inconvenience, and, in the benevolence of their 
hearts, they forthwith dispatched an epistle, requesting that 
their dear cousins would intrust the precious child to their 
safe keeping, and to the pure air and rural change of their 
pastoral habitation, for as long a time as they could spare 
her from the paternal roof, or till her health should be per- 
fectly re-established, which they almost pledged themselves 
(with God's blessing) it would be in their salubrious village. 
Such an invitation from such inviters was most gladly and 
gratefully accepted. My father accompanied me half-way 
to Broad Summerford, when he consigned me to the care 
of a grave, respectable-looking person, Mr. Scale's confiden- 
tial servant, who was sent with his master's equipage, (a 
dark-green calash, drawn by a steady, powerful old mare, 
whose sleek coat and broad back might have vied with those 
perfections of a London dray-horse,) to receive and escort 
me to the rectory. John Somers himself was clad in a suit 
of sober pepper-and-salt, the decent and becoming livery of 
his reverend master, in whose service he had grown grey, 
and been advanced, by long-tried worth and affection, some- 
thing beyond the station of a mere domestic. The kind 
and considerate creature did his best to beguile me of my 
natural grief at parting with my father, for the first time in 
my short life of fourteen years. He pointed out to me all 
the most remarkable objects on our road — all the hamlets, 
noblemen's and gentlemen's seats ; and, as he had been 
born and bred in the county, his topographical information 
was enriched with store of anecdotes respecting the owners 
of all those goodly mansions. But as we approached Broad 
Summerford, all his descriptive zeal merged in that favour- 



106 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X. 

ite spot ; and ever and anon it was, " Now, Miss ! youVe 
only four miles from the rectory ;" and then, " that's Squire 
R.'s house, miss — a special friend of master's ;" — and, "now 
you're only two miles from the rectory — and there's the 
mill where our wheat is ground — sweet home-made bread 
you'll taste at Broad Summerford, miss ! — and now it's only 
one mile — half a one. There's master's upper glebe-land — 
and there's our folks and horses getting in the hay. Ay, 
old Joan and I should hardly have been spared just now for 
any thing but to fetch you, miss — but you're come to Broad 
Summerford in a pleasant time. Now we're a'top of the 
last hill. — ^And ther^ ! there ! look down to your right, 
miss — Don't you see that great stack of old chimneys all 
over ivy, and those two grey gables ? — ^That's the rectory, 
God bless it — and there's the dovecot, and the homecroft, 
that old Joan has all to herself — a lazy jade — and now we 
shall be round at the front gate in half a minute." And, 
as John Somers said, a short sweep brought us within that 
time in front of the rectory, at the fore-court gate of which 
stood its venerable master, in hospitable readiness to receive 
and welcome his expected guest. He was indeed a man of 
most venerable aspect — of tall and large stature, but some- 
thing bowed by years, with a pale, placid, almost unwrinkled 
countenance, though the dim and faded lustre of his mild 
blue eyes betokened his advanced age, even more than the 
perfectly white hair, which, encircling his bald crown, de- 
scended even to his shoulders in still redundant waves of 
silky softness. The old man was standing v/ith both hands 
crossed before him on the top of a thick knotted staff, and 
the attitude happily combining with his orthodox attire, the 
short cassock and apron became him with a sort of apos- 
tolic dignity. As the calash drew up to the gate, Mr. Scale 
laid aside his staff, and, coming forward, welcomed me with 
a look and voice of almost paternal kindness ; and though 
faithful John was already by the side of the vehicle to help 
me down, his master chose to perform that first hospitable 
office, and, lifting me out in his feeble arms, (I was a small 
delicate girl — quite a child in appearance,) said, " Welcome 
to Broad Summerford, my dear little cousin. May God 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 107 

bless this meeting to us all !" And with that affectionate 
and pious greeting, he half-led, half-carrieil me to the house- 
door, where, on the uppermost of the four broad steps which 
led to it, stood another aged welcomer, who tenderly reite- 
rated her brother's Christian salutation, and sealed it with 
a maternal kiss, as she gently drew me to her kind bosom. 
And so in a moment the little wanderer was at home again 
— transported but from one home to another — from the 
arms of tender parents to those which encircled her almost 
as fondly. 

- Mrs. Helen Scale was the very personification of beauti- 
ful old age. A fairy creature she was — almost diminutive 
of stature — but her person in youth had been most deli- 
cately and symmetrically moulded ; and in her old age it 
still retained much of its fair proportion, and all its native 
gracefulness. Her hands and arms were still beautiful ! 
The taper fingers and soft palms were yet tinged with that 
delicate pink, which still mantled like a maiden blush over 
a face where Time had set his seal indeed, but, as it should 
seem, reluctantly, as if the ruthless spoiler had half relented 
for once in his destructive work. Her eyes were blue, like 
her brother's, (the brother and sister were indeed twins in 
mind and feature,) but their mild lustre was almost unim- 
paired ; and the soft hair that was combed in glossy smooth- 
ness over the roll, under her clear lawn cap, was but sil- 
vered here and there among its pale-brown waviness. No 
snow was ever whiter — no cobweb was ever finer than that 
same clQar lawn of which Mrs. Helen'§ cap, kerchief, ruf- 
fles, and apron were invariably composed ; and the latter 
was spread out in unrumpled purity over a richly quilted 
petticoat of silver grey silk, and a gown of the same mate- 
rial, abounding in such depth and amplitude of fold as would 
have furnished out a dozen modern draperies. A narrow 
black velvet collar encircled her small fair throat, (down 
which, as is related of fair Rosamond, I used to think one 
might see the red wine flow,) and the precise neck-kerchief 
was fastened with a fine diamond-pin. The fashion of this 
raiment wa« never varied by season or circumstance, ex- 
cept that, regularly on the thirty-first of October, the rich 



108 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X. 

lustring was exchanged for a richer satin of the same co- 
lour ; a black lace handkerchief was superadded to that of 
snowy lawn, and a pair of black velvet mittens, turned 
down with white satin, were drawn over the delicate hands 
and arms, not to be discarded till the thirty-first of May 
drew forth the silvery lustring from its retirement of laven- 
der and roses, and consigned the warm satin to a five 
months' seclusion. 

It was marvellous to observe how Mrs. Helen kept her- 
self in print as she did ! From morning to night, from 
week to week, from month to month, from year to year, al- 
ways the same — always " mise a quatres epingles,^^ as if she 
had just stepped out of a bandbox ; the silk or satin un- 
changing in hue or freshness — its lawn accompaniments 
never contracting soil or wrinkle on their snowy smooth- 
ness — the neck-kerchief folded in exactly the same number 
of plaits by the careful hand of that ancient abigail Mrs. 
Betty, who would probably have been as much derouiee by 
any innovation of those laws of the Medes and Persians, as 
if her venerable mistress had commanded a ball-dress or a 
wedding-suit. Yes — one would have thought that the dear 
old lady had been kept in a bandbox all ready for company, 
if her whole course of life had not, in fact, been one of 
most active, though quiet usefulness — for Mrs. Helen was 
never in a bustle. Neither was she uncomfortably precise 
about the preservation of this invariable neatness. Nay, I 
have seen the old grey parrot on her wrist or her shoulder, 
and the favourite toi;toise- shell cat on her lap, often and of- 
ten ; and the old lady took snuff too, and, spite of all, the 
unruffled purity of attire remained inviolate. The matter 
was a mystery to me, whose whole girlish life had hitherto 
been an outrage to the laws of tidiness. 

But I must tell you something more of my first evening 
at Summerford Rectory. It was already evening, you re- 
member, when I arrived there — about seven o'clock of a 
sweet June evening, when the old green calash drove up to 
the entrance court, and my venerable cousin lifted pie 
down within its quiet precincts. The entrance gate was of 
fihgree iron-work, breast high, between two low stone pil- 



BROAD SUMMiGRPORD. 109 

lars, crowned with balls, but the walls were all evergreen—- 
beautiful holly hedges, as finely kept as ever those at Sayes 
Court could have been in their day of perfection. This 
living wall, opening to the right and left in two bowery 
archways, leading to the offices and garden, formed three 
sides of the square court, the old mansion itself completing 
the fourth boundary — a very antique dwelling, with quar- 
ter-work of red brick, mellowed by time and weather to the 
richest and most harmonious colouring. The double gable 
(the same John Somers had pointed out to me from the hill- 
top) was surmounted on each pinnacle by stone balls simi- 
lar to those on the entrance pillars. One was quite wound 
and matted over with ivy, of which only a few encroaching 
tendrils had as yet curled round the other ball ; but lower 
down a fine apricot covered a considerable portion of the 
wall with its skilfully trained branches ; and a lovely 
honeysuckle (then in full bloom) had been allowed to occu- 
py the remaining space, and almost to darken some of the 
windows with its picturesque festoons. The latticed win» 
dows were set deep in heavy stone framework, and the 
massy doorway opened from a flight of four broad steps, on 
the uppermost of which, on either side, stood two tubs con- 
taining fine orange-trees. And there, as I told you, in the 
doorway between those two fragrant supporters, stood the 
dear old lady ; and after I had received the welcome of her 
gentle embrace, the brother and sister, taking each a hand, 
led me between them, through an airy entrance hall, into a 
small but lofty antiroom, hung round with family portraits, 
and from thence into a large pleasant parlour, the common 
sitting room. A very pleasant cheerful room it was, with a 
fine wide bay window opposite the entrance, and on one 
side a sashed door, then standing open to a broad gravel 
walk, bordered on either side by beds of the choicest and 
sweetest flowers. The apartment contained no costly fur- 
niture, except a fine Indian folding screen of many leaves, 
and a valuable Japan cabinet, loaded with rare old china. 
The curtains were composed of white dimity, as well as the 
short 'petticoats of the settee and chairs. Those odd little 
chairs ! Methinks I see them now, with their oval backs, 
10 



110 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. X. 

sloping down like falling shoulders into little fin-like arms, 
spread out with such an air of tender invitation ! And they 
held out no false promise. Modern luxury, recherche as it 
is, has nothing half so comfortable among all its traps for 
loungers. I was soon placed in one of those delightful fau- 
teuils by the side of my kind hostess, who established herself 
before the tea equipage, all ready set on a small Pembroke 
table near the beautiful bay window. My travelling guar- 
dian, John Somers, (jealous of devolving upon others any 
of his accustomed services,) soon appeared with the silver- 
chased tea-kettle and lamp, which he set down on a small 
mahogany tripod, beside his venerable lady ; and it was 
pleasant to observe the almost reverential gratitude with 
which the faithful servant replied to the kind greeting of his 
aged mistress, and her thanks " for having brought their 
dear young cousin safe to Summerford rectory." 

The usual tea hour was long past on the evening of my 
arrival ; but for once the clockwork regularity of established 
custom was infringed, in kind consideration for the expected 
guest ; and Mrs. Helen, anticipating that " the poor child 
would be half famished," had taken care that the tea-table 
should be far more abundantly provided than with the four 
slices of wafer bread and butter, its customary allotment. 
In truth, the dear old lady had calculated with great fore- 
sight ; for I did such ample justice to her plain seed-cake, 
and made such consumption of her sweet home-made bread 
and butter, as must have infinitely reheved any apprehen- 
sion she might have conceived at the first sight of the poor 
little sickly creature of whom she had so benevolently taken 
charge. But, in fact, it must have been that the air of 
Broad Summerford wrought miracles. At home, for many . 
preceding weeks, I had almost loathed the sight of food. 

Mr. Scale and Mrs. Helen soon drew me into familiar 
conversation ; and^ by the time tea was over, I was prattling 
away to them with as much unrestraint as if I had been do- 
mesticated under their roof for a twelvemonth. But even 
before the tea equipage was removed, this excitement of an- 
imal spirits began to sink under bodily languor and extreme 
fatigue ; my eyelids fell involuntarily, and the sentence I 



fiROAD StJMMEIlFORD. Ill 

« 

Was uttering died away in an inarticulate manner as my 
head dropt aside against Mrs. Helen's shoulder. Half rous- 
ed, however, by the gentle contact, I was just sensible that 
a kind arm encircled me, and a tender kiss was imprinted 
on my forehead, that something was said about ringing for 
Betty, for that " the poor dear child could not sit up to pray- 
ers ;" and then the bell was pulled, (with what extraordina- 
ry acuteness the sound of a bell tingles in one's ears in that 
state of half slumber!) and Mrs. Betty summoned; and 
between her and her mistress I was somehow, with little 
exertion of my own, conducted up stairs into a bedchamber, 
undressed, and put to bed in a state of the most passive 
helplessness — unconsciousness wellnigh, except that I was 
still exquisitely sensible of the luxury of sinking down on 
the soft pillow between the smooth fine sheets, that smelled 
deliciously of lavender and roses. 

I recollect nothing more till the next morning, (my ele- 
ven hours' nap had been a dreamless spell,) when I unclosed 
my eyes to the light of a bright summer sun, which stream- 
ed in between the white curtains of my bed, and to the 
emulative brightness and summer sunshine of Mrs. Betty's 
comely countenance, who having looked over and arranged 
my wardrobe, and prepared every thing for my levee, stood 
waiting in patient silence the natural termination of my 
unconscionable slumber, from which her gentle mistress, 
who had already looked in on me from her adjoining dress- 
ing-room, had prohibited all attempt to waken me. " Let 
the poor dear have her sleep out," said the kind lady ; and 
there stood Mrs. Betty a statue of silent obedience. 

At last, however, when it pleased me to awaken, that 
portly handmaid saluted me with a pleasant good-morrow, 
and the information, that if I pleased to rise and dress di- 
rectly, I should still be in time for prayers, and " Master and 
Mistress's breakfast." So, between my own alacrity and 
her assistance, I was soon ready ; and then she showed me 
down to that large, pleasant sitting-room, from which, in- 
deed, I had ascended the preceding evening, but in such a 
slumberous state, as to leave me no recollection of the way* 
Breakfast was ready laid, and Mrs. Helen had just preceded 



112 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X. 

me into the room, where sat her venerable brother, at the 
head of the breakfast-table, with the Bible open before him, 
in which he was marking out the morning chapters. 

Both my kind cousins greeted me with cordial affection ; 
and Mr. Scale, calling me towards him, while his sister rang 
the summons to their little household, said, " Come, and take 
your place by me, my dear child. I think, after to-day, I 
shall appoint you my clerk, for I know your good father has 
well qualified you for the office." 

Proud and happy girl was I to take my station beside that 
good old man, and on the morrow to assume my allotted 
office ; and though my voice faltered a little at the first re- 
sponses, my father had made me a correct and articulate 
reader ; and from that day forth I officiated, to the entire 
satisfaction of my indulgent hearers, and with a very tole- 
rable proportion of self-approval. 

Soon after breakfast, Mrs. Helen took me with her through 
all the household departments, in every one of which good 
order and beautiful neatness shone apparent. Five servants 
composed the in-door establishment. Mr. John and Mrs. 
Betty having authority over the corps de cuisine, under the 
mild control of the higher powers ; for Mrs. Helen, though 
reposing perfect confidence in her old and faithful servants, 
took an active share in the family arrangements, and no lit- 
tle pride indeed, in all the more refined and complex culinary 
arts — such as pickling, preserving, making wines and cor- 
dials, sweet waters and strong waters, pastry, and floating 
islands, and confectionary hedgehogs. In all the mysteries 
of distilhng, the dear old lady was an adept. Rose, peach, 
almond, and orange-flower, pennyroyal and peppermint 
waters, were ranged rank and file, in long-necked, squat 
bottles, on the still-room shelves, sufficient in quantity to 
flavour all the confectionary, and cure all the stomach-aches, 
in England. I believe, indeed, Mrs. Helen did supply half 
the country ; so great was the reputation of her odoriferous 
stores, and so liberal her distribution of them. Certain it 
is, that the annual replenishment of the stock was consider- 
ed as much a matter of course by the lady and her assistant 
handmaid, as the summer reproduction of the grey lustring, 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 113 

and its accompaniments ; but why, or on what principle 
Mrs. Helen conceived it equally indispensable to concoct a 
certain yearly quantity of plague water, I was never fully 
satisfied ; nor, indeed, did it ever come within my know- 
ledge, that there were any applicants for that invaluable 
elixir, made after the recipe of " our late Queen, Henrietta 
Maria, of blessed memory," as set forth in crabbed tawny 
characters, in the old family receipt-book ; neither could I 
ever precisely ascertain, (though I had my own surmises on 
the subject,) what became of the quantity which periodically 
disappeared from the shelf, to be replaced by a fresh con- 
coction. 

It were endless to enumerate the palsy-waters, balsams, 
tinctures, elixirs, electuaries, which occupied one depart- 
ment of the still-room, and almost profane to reveal the 
mysteries of that sacred chamber during the season of con- 
coctions — mysteries as jealously guarded as those of the 
Bona Dea from the eyes of the uninitiated and ignorant. 

In after-days of complete naturalization in the family, I 
was privileged with les grandes et petites entrees, even of 
that generally prohibited closet ; and great was my delight 
in accompanying thither my venerable cousin, when her 
occupation lay within the spicery or confectionary region, 
and in receiving her instructions in the arts she excelled 
in — those always excepted which related to the medicinal 
department ; for, to ray shame be it spoken, I derived infi- 
nitely more gratification from the pastime of sticking over 
blanc-mange hedge-hogs with almond bristles, than in com- 
pounding the most infallible ointment ; nor could I, with all 
deference to Mrs. Helen's superior wisdom, ever go the 
length of agreeing that her tincture of rhubarb was to the 
full as palatable as her fine, old, raisin wine, and her wal- 
nuts, preserved with sugar and senna, equally delicious with 
those guiltless of the latter ingredient. 

Among the various concerns transacted in that notable 
chamber, one of the most important, that of breaking up 
the loaves of double-refined sugar, was always superin- 
tended by Mrs. Helen ; and on those occasions, with a fine 
cambric handkerchief pinned on over her clear lawn apron, 
10* 



114 CHURCHTfARbS.^^CHAP. X. 

she assumed even an active share in the operation ; and I 
used to deUght in watching the lady-like manner with which 
the clumsy nippers were managed by her pretty, little, pink 
fingers, and the quiet dexterity which supplied their defi- 
ciency of muscular strength. If Mrs. Helen Scale had 
chosen, by way of variety, to twirl a mop, or handle a car- 
pet-broom, she must have done it with the air and grace of 
a perfect gentlewoman. 

But you are impatient to know more of my first day at 
Summerford Rectory. It was full of delightful incident to 
me, though little or nothing to make a story out of. I have 
told you how Mrs. Helen took me her morning round 
through the still-room, the housekeeper's room, and various 
offices ; and then we visited the dairy. — Such a dairy ! — 
such a paradise of milk, and cream, and butter, and curds, 
and whey, and cream cheeses, and crystal water, and puri- 
ty, and fragrance I- — for many bouquets of the sweetest 
flowers were dispersed among the glossy milk pans, and 
round the shallow reservoir of a marble slab in the centre 
of the octagon building ; on the polished surface of which, 
butter-pats, of many a fantastic shape, were curiously ar- 
ranged, half floated by a constant supply of the purest and 
coldest water, conveyed thither from a neighbouring spring. 
From the dairy we passed into the poultry -yard ; and there 
I was introduced to a train of milk-white turkeys, and fowls 
of the same colour, a few bantams, and three galenies, Mrs. 
Helen's especial favourites, though the perverse creatures 
could never be brought to submit to any of the regulations 
of the feathered establishment, straying away over pales, 
walls, roofs, and barriers of every description, scratching up 
seed-beds and flower-borders, to the despair of the gardener, 
and laying their eggs on those, or on the bare gravel-walk, 
in flagrant dereliction of all fitness and propriety. 

Yet those irreclaimables were, as I told you, prime fa- 
vourites with their order-loving mistress ; and I, who par- 
took in some measure of their wild, and wandering, and un- 
tameable nature, very shortly became the object of her ten- 
der and unbounded indulgence ; though the dear lady's nice 
sense of decorum, and habitual placidity, were frequently 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 115 

startled into a gesture of amazement, and a hasty exclama- 
tion, at sight of her eUve swinging on the orchard gate — 
scrambling, like a cat, along the top of the garden wall — 
coming in knee-deep in mud, with a lap full of cresses from 
the water-meadow, or with a frock torn to tatters, in some 
lawless excursion over hedges and hurdles, when, as dear 
Mrs. Helen mildly assured me, " the common roadway was 
so much shorter and pleasanter." 

It was some time, indeed, before I astounded the deco- 
rous inhabitants of the rectory with these feats of prowess. 
On my first arrival, I was far too weak and languid for such 
performances, even if I had not been restrained a while by 
natural shyness. But that soon yielded to the affectionate 
encouragement of my kind hosts ; and in a month's time, 
the pure air of Broad Summerford — gentle exercise in the 
old calash, in which Mr. Seale took me a daily airing — sim- 
ple but nourishing diet, and asses' milk, had so effectually 
restored my health, that my natural exuberance of animal 
spirits began to manifest itself, by the indications aforesaid, 
somewhat to the consternation of Mrs. Helen, though she 
could not find in her heart to repress " the fine spirits of the 
poor dear child, so wonderfqily recovered (under God's 
blessing) by Summerford air, and her good management." 

So much for one " night's entertainment," as I have faith- 
fully recorded it, from the well-remembered words of my 
dear historian. She shall resume the narrative in an ensu- 
ing chapter, for the benefit of all those who have patience 
with a subject which has neither invention, magic, adven- 
ture, sentiment, eccentricity, passion, love, murder, or met^ 
aphysics, to recommend it — only Truth, 



116 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 



CHAPTER XI. 

BROAD SUMMERFORD. 

The history of one day at the rectory was an epitome of 
all ; and yet there was no monotony, no dulness, no gloom, 
no heavy flight of time, in that dear mansion. I never 
knew a tedious hour, during my long sojourn of a full 
twelvemonth, within its hospitable walls ; and yet I had no 
companions of my own age — nor any indeed, except my 
two venerable relations, and the four-footed and feathered 
creatures, with whom I was always sure to contract speedy 
and familiar intimacy. 

In the morning I generally attended Mrs. Seale in all 
her home avocations, and, when they were dispatched, not 
unfrequently accompanied her on a round of charitable visits 
in the adjoining village. Those early hours were usually 
passed by Mr. Seale in his study ; and notwithstanding my 
vagabond propensities, I would not have forfeited the privi- 
lege of being allowed to read with him one daily hour in 
that pleasant, quiet room, (made deliciously sombre by the 
shade of a huge old jessamine which embowered the large 
bay window,) for all the temptations which lay in wait for 
me in garden, copse, or meadow. I have ever since 
delighted in the smell of jessamine and Russia leather, 
(strange association !) because it immediately brings that 
dear, old-fashioned room, and its revered occupant, vividly 
before my mind's eye. 

We dined at two o'clock ; and, after a short nap in his 
great, high-backed armed-chair, Mr. Seale generally sallied 
forth on what he was wont to term his evening rounds 
through the hamlet, and among the more scattered and re- 
mote dwellings of his large parish — in every one of which 
he was a visiter, not less frequent than welcome and re- 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 117 

spected. He had a word in season for all : Of comfort — 
of encouragement — of advice — of consolation — of remon- 
strance — of rebuke also, when occasion called for it ; and 
never did the good man (whatever pain it cost him) shrink 
behind motives of false humanity, from the strict perform- 
ance of that imperative duty. Nor were the severe truths 
he uttered less awfully impressive, because it was well 
known and felt, by every individual of his flock, that their 
benevolent pastor loved far better to dwell on the promises 
of the Gospel than on its terrible denunciations. 

But Mr. Scale administered not only to the spiritual 
wants of his parishioners ; he also cared tenderly for their 
temporal necessities ; and having considerable knowledge 
of medicine, and being "intrusted," as he termed it, with 
a competent income, his means of doing good were mani- 
fold, and they were improved to the uttermost. Happy 
and proud was I when the good old man, refreshed by his 
short siesta, entered the drawing-room with his hat on, his 
staff" in hand, (just such a one, methinks, as Bishop Jewell's* 

* "As soon as he (Mr. Hooker) was perfectly recovered from this 
sickness, he took a journey from Oxford to Exeter, to satisfy and see 
his good mother, being accompanied by a countryman, and companion 
of his own college, and both on foot, which was then either more in 
fashion, or want of money, or their humility, made it so : But on foot 
they went, and took Salisbury in their way, purposely to see the good 
Bishop, (Jewell,) who made Mr. Hooker and his companion dine with 
him at his own table; which Mr. Hooker boasted of with much joy 
and gratitude when he saw his mother and his friends. And at the 
Bishop's parting with him, the Bishop gave him good counsel, and his 
benediction, but forgot to give him money; which, when the Bishop 
had considered , he sent a servant in all haste to call Richard back to 
him ; and at Richard's return, the Bishop said to him, 'Richard, I sent 
for you back, to lend you a horse which hath carried me many a mile, 
and, I thank God, with much ease;' and presently delivered to him a 
walking staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many 
parts of Germany. And he said, 'Richard, I do not give, but lend 
you my horse : Be sure you be honest, and bring my horse back to me 
at your return this way to Oxford. And I do now give you ten groats 
to bear your charges to Exeter; and here is ten groats more, which 
I charge you to deliver to your mother ; and tell her, I send her a bish- 
op's benediction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me : 
And if you bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more, 
to carry you on foot to the college. And so God bless you, good Rich- 
ard,' " 



118 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XI. / 

trusty steed,) and a small basket containing medicines and 
cordials, which, with a smile of invitation, he invited his 
"little apprentice," as he called me, to carry for the old 
Doctor. 

Happy and proud was I to obey that cheerful summons ; 
and powerful as were the attractions of meadow rambles, 
swinging upon gates, and scrambling over hedges and 
ditches, I was not to be lured abroad by any of those refined 
pastimes, while a chance existed, that, by sitting quietly 
beside Mrs. Helen's embroidery-frame, I should be called 
upon to accompany the rector in his pastoral progress. 
Dear Mrs. Helen never walked further than that part of the 
scattered hamlet immediately adjoining the rectory domain, 
I cannot fancy she could ever have taken a good long walk, 
as it is called. That small fine frame of hers, though per- 
fectly organized, was surely composed of materials too deli- 
cate for robust exercise. Those little, little feet, looked as 
if they had never moved but on Persian carpets, or velvet 
grass-plats. They would hardly have disgraced a Chinese 
lady ; and among the curiosities contained in the Indian 
cabinet, was an embroidered Chinese shoe, that did not match 
amiss with her little black velvet slipper. I used to call her 
the " Fairy Graciosa." 

Our tea-time was six o'clock. In summer, the after-hours 
of daylight were commonly spent in a large, pleasant alcove, 
terminating the broad garden-walk, to which Mrs. Helen's 
footstool, her carpet-work, or tambour-frame, were duly con- 
veyed by John Somers. Then Mr. Scale busied himself 
about his flower-borders, and I assisted him in the agreeable 
task so much to his satisfaction, that he was wont to call 
me his " neat-handed Phillis ;" and after some apprentice- 
ship in the initiatory care of sweet-williams, clove pinks, and 
some such second-rate beauties, I was preferred to the high 
responsibility of securing the full buds of the rarest carna- 
tions, against the danger of premature and irregular burst- 
ing, and of tending and even watering the delicate auricu- 
las, more sedulously guarded from every caprice of the ele- 
ments than ever was Eastern princess, " the light of the 
Harem." If any weeds of vanity lurked in the good man'§ 



BROAD SUMMliJKi'uRD. 119 

heart, they sprung surely from his passion for those favour- 
ite flowers ; and I have seen him stand for ten minutes at a 
time, entranced in admiration of a " Lovely Helen," or a 
"Powdered Beau !" 

Those were verily right pleasant hours, when I followed 
my dear master from flower to flower, with the small green 
watering-pot, the slender sticks, and nicely shredded strings 
of fine wet bass. To this day, when busied in my own gar- 
den I have occasion to use the latter material, its peculiar 
smell gives me a strange, indescribable pleasure ; so strongly 
and invariably does it bring to my recollection that sweet 
garden of Broad Summerford rectory, and my two dear and 
indulgent companions. 

John Somers and twilight came together ; the former to 
re-convey to the house Mrs. Helen's footstool and work- 
ing apparatus ; the latter gently intimating to the venerable 
pair, that it was time for aged heads to seek shelter from the 
falling dews. It was very pleasing to observe the old-fash- 
ioned politeness and tender caution, with which Mr. Scale 
supported on his own feeble arm the more infirm frame of 
his beloved companion, as they slowly retraced the flower- 
bordered walk towards their quiet dwelling, holding "sweet 
converse" by the way, and lingering often — now in mutual 
admiration of some half-opened, dew-glittering rose — or to 
watch the antic circles of the bat — or to gaze upon the eve- 
ning star — or to catch the last mellow notes of the black- 
bird's vesper hymn, or the deeper tone of the curfew from 
the neighbouring steeple. And if it was a moonlight eve- 
ning, candles were not soon called for, on their re-entering 
the parlour. The old couple dearly loved to sit together at 
that beautiful bay window, in meditative and social — yes — 
social silence, contemplating the glorious uprising of the 
broad full moon, or the silvery brightness of her growing 
crescent, emerging from behind the dark mass of the old 
church tower, and " its embowering elms." Solemn and 
pleasant, doubtless, at such seasons, were the thoughts of 
those kindred hearts. 

Theirs, whose earthly race was so nearly run — whose 
hopes tended to the same goal — whose innocent lives had 



120 CHUKCHYARDS.— CHAP. XI. 

flown on in the same peaceful channel — and who trusted 
not to be divided in their deaths :< — surely, though " speech 
nor language" were at such times interchanged, their hearts 
communed with each other, and with good spirits, ascend- 
ing and descending from those starry heavens whereunto 
their aged eyes were so devoutly uplifted. Young and vol- 
atile as I was, I should have felt it little less than sacrile- 
gious to interrupt that sacred silence. I too loved well to 
sit silent and unobserved in my dark corner, contemplating, 
with affectionate reverence, that beautiful picture of happy 
old age. 

As the days shortened, we had some reading in the eve- 
ning : — History, sacred and profane — -Voyages — Travels — 
Biography — and Sir Charles Grandison. — And Mr. Scale 
and Mrs. Helen often played a match at backgammon be- 
fore supper. That was brought in at half-past nine precise- 
ly ; and soon after ten the Christian household once more 
re-assembled round their reverend and revered master, to 
conclude the day as they had commenced it, with thanks- 
giving, prayer, and adoration. 

Such was the history of one day at Broad Summerford. 
And I have already told you, that one was the epitome of 
all, with very sli2;ht variations — such as the occasional calls 
of friends or P'^^^^hbours ; for though the aged lady of the 
rectory paif^ xio visits herself, many courted and sought her 
society, ever sure of a kind and cordial welcome. And Mr. 
Seale now and then brought home a dinner guest uncer- 
emoniously invited in his morning ramble ; and once or 
twice in the year. Mrs. Helen collected together a rather 
numerous evening assembly, formally convened at a fort- 
night's notice, by regular invitation cards, to obtain which 
there was as much emulation (though certainly less in- 
triguing) as if the dear old lady had been a distinguished 
leader of haut ton, and her party the first opening of a fash- 
ionable campaign. And in the surrounding neighbourhood 
of Broad Summerford, there was no lack of the great, the 
gay, and the fashionable : and yet none but thought them- 
selves honoured by an invitation to the rectory. Perhaps, 
too, the mere charm of novelty had its full share of attrac- 



BEOAD SUMMERFORD. 121 

tion for sonae of those modish guests, whose habitual Hst- 
lessness might have found a temporary interest and excite- 
ment in the strong contrast opposed by the warm-hearted 
simphcity within those quiet walls, to the artificial heartless- 
ness which characterized their own circles. 

Be that as it may, it rarely happened that any answer 
but a ready acceptance was returned for one of Mrs. He- 
len's invitation cards ; and the party, once invited and ar- 
ranged, then sounded great note of preparation. And then 
was Mrs. Betty in her glory ! to say nothing of her less 
bustling and important, though not less active lady. Then 
began such compounding of seed-cakes, and pound-cakes, 
and plain-cakes, and wafers, and crumpets, and all sorts of 
indescribable accompaniments, as might have set out half a 
dozen confectioners' shops. And then — for those were the 
good old times of suppers, and hot suppers — there was such 
stuffing of turkey poults— such larding of capons — such col- 
laring of eels — such potting of savoury meats — such whip- 
ping of syllabubs — ^such spinning of sugar — such powdering 
with comfits — such devices, and surprises, and " subtleties," 
(almond hedgehogs, and floating islands included,) as Mrs. 
Glass herself might have been proud to have had a hand in. 

During that whole week of preparation, the approach to 
the rectory was like that to one of the Spice islands. All 
round the house, the perfume of lilacs and seringas (if they 
were in flower) was fairly overpowered by the exotic odours 
of mace and cinnamon ; and I used to conceit—dans mon 
petit moi-meme — that the persons of Mrs. Helen and her 
faithful Betty must have been half embalmed, by the time 
their labours were over in that nest of spicery. 

You are not, however, to infer, that the quiet and elegant 
rofttine of domestic regulations was at all infringed upon by 
these extraneous proceedings ; that any thing like vulgar 
bustle, or parvenu anxiety, marked the grand reception-day ; 
or that Mrs. Helen's serene self-possession was in any way 
aflfected by the expectation or arrival of her guests. She 
was too perfectly the gentlewoman to feel any such under- 
bred trepidations ; and her true politeness — the courtesy of 
the heart — gave to her whole deportment such natural grace- 
11 



122 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

fulness, as could never have been imparted by the finest ar- 
tificial polish. Besides, every thing was in good taste, and 
in perfect keeping, throughout the whole modest establish- 
ment. No attempt — no pretension — no display — no cold 
best rooms, to be thrown open for its one grand day of an- 
nual exhibition — no sumptuous carpets to be uncovered — no 
cold, glazy cushions to be uncased — no costly gilding to be 
unpapered — no swathed-up curtains to be unswathed — no 
ornamental trumpery to be arranged with elaborate careless- 
ness — no unusual decoration to be remarked in the large, 
comfortable, constantly -used drawing-room, except that the 
green dragon beau-pots were filled with some of Mr. Scale's 
choicest flowers, never cut by the dear old man but on such 
special occasions — ostensibly as an offering to Mrs. Helen ; 
but having hinted as his besetting sin — his floral vanity — I 
may just venture the surmise, that his liberality was not 
purely disinterested, and that a cynical eye might have de- 
tected original sin in the delight which beamed in his mild 
countenance, when the beautiful bouquets, near which he 
was sure to post himself, drew forth admiring exclamations 
from the courteous by-standers, and humble petitions for 
slips and cuttings at the proper season. 

Nothing could exceed the tone of elegant propriety — of 
perfect respectability — which pervaded the whole establish- 
ment. Old John Somers, with his silvery hair, and suit of 
sober grey, followed by his attendant page in the same live- 
ry, moved about with all the conscious dignity of long and 
faithful servitude, bearing round the circle such tea and cof- 
fee, in such china as was not often to be met with, on a no- 
ble silver salver, richly chased and emblazoned, like all the 
family plate, of which there was abundance in common use ; 
and the smooth-headed, rosy-cheeked lad, who trode closely 
behind with his tray of cates, was remarked, by many a 
smiling observer, to copy, with very successful mimicry, his 
great-uncle's gravity of deportment — for the aged domestic 
and his youthful assistant stood in that near relation to each 
other. 

No parade of further attendance was ever made on these 
company occasions. There was no conscription — no forced 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 123 

levy from the farm-yard and stable. The gardener and the 
cow-boy were not stuffed into spare liveries made to fit all 
sizes, and stuck up like scarecrows in the entrance-hail, or 
shoved into the drawing-room to poke forward refreshments 
with great red hands like lobsters' claws, and bony wrists 
protruding half a yard beyond the livery cuffs, to slide scald- 
ing coffee into ladies' laps, overset the candles, whisk their 
coat-flaps in the fire, and tread upon the tail of the old tor- 
toise-shell ; who, for her part, dear old Matty ! occupied her 
wonted place on the hearth-rug in undisturbed serenity, 
evincing no emotion at the presence of company, or indeed 
any notice of the assembled guests, except by unbuttoning 
her eyes a very little wider, and purring a note or two louder, 
when either of them stooped down to court Mrs. Helen's 
favourite, by smoothing her velvet coat. 

On one of those gala days, just before the arrival of the 
expected guests, I was the unlucky means of ruffling the 
composure of my dear old friend and protectress, more than 
I had ever seen it affected by any outward circumstance. 
I have hinted to you that my toilet duties and the concerns 
of my wardrobe were not always attended to with the scru- 
pulous neatness I ought to have observed in those matters. 
I had been the companion and playmate of boys — of my 
brothers only — and the association had, naturally enough, 
moulded my tastes and habits more in conformity with theirs 
than was quite consonant with feminine propriety. Hence 
those uncouth pastimes to which I have confessed myself 
addicted ; and the natural result of such exploits was the 
dilapidated state of a wardrobe from which it would have 
been difficult to select an upper garment in perfect preserva- 
tion. And as the requisite repairs ostensibly devolved on 
me, and I abominated needlework, the general condition of 
the whole may be more easily conceived than described. 
On this especial evening I had been tenderly admonished to 
take timely care that my dress was whole and neat, not dis- 
tinguished by appalling rents or disgraceful tuckings up ; 
that it should be put on properly, that is, in good time, so 
as to be drawn equally over both shoulders, not dragged on 
in such hurry and bustle as to send me forth into the draw- 



124 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

ing-room all flushed and fluttered, and " frightened out of 
that fair propriety" which Mrs. Helen so justly deemed 
indispensable to the carriage of a gentle- woman. Mrs. 
Betty had, moreover, received private injunctions to super- 
intend my toilet, and send me down " fit to be seen." But, 
alas ! it so happened that about the time that respectable 
personage sought me, in pursuance of her lady's directions, 
I had rambled away into the adjoining hazel copse, and was 
too busily engaged in hooking down the bright brown clus- 
ters of ripe nuts, to remember Mrs. Helen's solemn injunc- 
tions ; and when at last they started into my mind, and I 
scrambled and scampered back into the house, and up to 
my own chamber, Mrs. Betty's attention had been attracted 
to other weighty concerns, and I performed the ceremony 
of the toilet uncontrolled by her judicious censorship ; and 
a pretty toilet I made of it ! — a brief one, certainly — and I 
also reached the drawing-room in excellent good time, long 
before the arrival of company. Lucky was it that I did 
so — lucky for my own credit and the restoration of Mrs. 
Helen's elegant composure, which received an indescribable 
shock at my first awful appearance, still panting and breath- 
less with my i*ace home, and the bustle of changing my 
dress — arms, neck, and face crimsoned over, and shining to 
boot from the eflects of a rough and hasty ablution in soap 
and water ; which elegant cosmetic had by no means, how- 
ever, contributed to efface or disguise sundry marks and 
scratches, (one happily conspicuous across the bridge of my 
nose,) inflicted by certain intercepting boughs and branches, 
with which I had too rashly encountered, in my reckless 
return through the hazel copse. Then the best frock was 
dragged on, to be sure — ^but not over both shoulders ; and 
its clear texture too plainly revealed certain ghastly rents 
and fractures in the under garment, the tucks of which be- 
ing all unripped on one side, lowered it to the very ground 
in careless festoons. I had considered the tedious operation 
of changing stockings quite a work of supererogation, and 
that I did very handsomely, in cramming my thick cotton 
ones, mud and all, into a pretty little pair of black satin 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 125 

slippers, the becomingness of which I was by no means in- 
sensible to. 

Such was the apparition which presented itself to Mrs. 
Helen's delicate perceptions, as I entered her presence, 
dragging on, or rather pulling up, a pair of once white 
gloves, the size of jack-boots, through the thumbs and fing- 
ers of which, all gaping and curling back like the capsules 
of overblown flowers, my red thumbs and fingers protruded 
like ripe capsicums. 

Mrs. Helen's first instinctive act was to pull the bell, as 
she had never pulled it but once before, when her own cap 
had taken fire. Now, as then, the whole household came 
running at the unaccustomed summons, but respectfully 
drew back, and made way for Mrs. Betty's approach, when 
once aware that their lady was neither on fire nor in a fit, 
and only unusually vehement in requiring the attendance 
of her faithful handmaiden. 

"Oh! my good heavens, Betty!" ejaculated the dear 
old lady, in her imperfect English, (she was not a native of 
this island.) "Look at this child ! look what she has done 
with herself — Bon Dieu ! quelle horj-eur ! But quick — 
quick — we must make something with her before the com- 
pany come — La pauvre enfant /" 

And they did try their best to make " something" of me. 
I was hurried into Mrs. Helen's dressingroom, and there she 
and the dismayed Betty set to work to rectify the incon- 
gruities of my dress at least. The scratched and scarlet 
face and neck were past mending for one while ; and, truth 
to tell, only glowed and glistened the more fiercely for Mrs. 
Helen's tender application of rose-water and milk of roses. 
But the muslin frock was properly arranged over a whole 
under-garment. The muddy cotton stockings were ex- 
changed for silk ones, an exchange which, once effected, I 
entirely approved of. A drawer of beautiful perfumed 
French gloves was pulled open, and a delicate pair, nicely 
fitted to my unworthy hands, the form and size of which, 
however, did not absolutely disgrace them ; and as to the 
colour, that was of my own acquiring, and I was solemnly 
11* 



126 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XI. 

enjoined not to unglove it till it had subsided to a more lady- 
like complexion. The face and neck were not to be con- 
cealed or mended ; and when we were once more in the 
drawing-room, my dear good cousin could not help review- 
ing me with looks in which a little vexation was still dis- 
cernible, as she once or twice murmured to herself — " La 
pauvre enfant!'''' 

Even that gentle ejaculation was thought too severe a 
rebuke by Mr. Scale, who comforted me under the infliction, 
and pledged himself to Mrs. Helen that I should be quite fit 
to be seen in ten minutes, and that I would never again 
transgress in like manner. 

That night, while I was preparing for bed, thinking over 
my late inattention to Mrs. Helen's injunctions, and her in- 
dulgent gentleness, I could not help asking her ancient abi- 
gail, who was assisting me to undress, whether, in the whole 
course of her long service of five-and-forty years, she ever 
remembered to have seen her lady really out of temper ? I 
could not ask if she had ever seen her in a passion. That 
was as much out of the scale of possibilities as it would have 
been for a lamb to roar like a lion, or a turtle-dove to ex- 
change natures with a hawk. But Mrs. Betty quite as- 
tounded me with her prompt reply, " Oh, yes, miss ! my 
mistress did once put herself into a fearful passion, at least 
my master said so, though for my part, I should never have 
found it out ; and except that once, I never saw her so much 
vexed and disturbed as she was with you this evening ; and 
you know, miss " 

" Oh ! Mrs. Betty, I know well enough how much I de- 
served a hearty scolding, and yet my dear cousin could not 
summon up so much as a frown to testify her displeasure. 
She in a passion ! Dear Mrs. Betty, tell me all about it, I 
beseech you." 

" Why, miss, you must know then, if there is one thing 
my mistress takes more pride in than another, it is that fine, 
old, rare china on the top of the commode in her dressing- 
room ; but the finest piece of all is gone now — a large green 
jar that had belonged to her mother, and my mistress prized 
it dearly for that reason, and was so careful of it that she 






BROAD SUMMERFORD. 127 

never suffered any one — not me even — to dust or touch it, 
or any thing else on that commode. Cicely is a good, steady, 
careful girl now, (you know Cicely, miss,) but she came to 
us a sad, giddy, careless, tearing young thing at first, about 
twenty years ago, and my mistress soon saw what a despe- 
rate hand she was at whisking and flicking about her duster ; 
so she gave her double charges never so much as to go near 
any of the china, particularly that on the commode. Well, 
the careless wench must needs meddle with it, for all my 
mistress's warning ; and one unlucky day, sure enough, 
down she whisked that beautiful green jar, and it was smash- 
ed all to pieces. My mistress heard the crash, and up stairs 
she was in a minute, and there stood Cicely, looking sheep- 
ish enough to be sure, and the jar all to particles at her feet. 
Weil, miss, if you'll believe it, the tears came into my mis- 
tress's eyes, and, ' Oh !' says she, ' my dear mother's jar !' 
And then, to be sure, she did colour up over her very fore- 
head, and spoke quicker than I have ever heard her before 
or since. ' Upon my word,' says she, ' this is too bad, after 
ail my biddings. Go, go, you naught)'^, careless girl, and 

don't let me ' 

" She was going on, speaking very quick, but my master, 
who had followed her up into the room, came and took her 
hand, and motioning Cicely to go down stairs, (she did not 
wait for second orders, the careless hussy,) he led my dear 
mistress to the settee, and then, for all he kissed her kindly, 
and comforted her for the loss of their mother's favourite jar, 
he read her such a lecture about the sinfulness of giving way 
to such violent passions, as soon set her a-crying in good 
earnest, a dear, sweet soul ! and me, too, to keep her com- 
pany ; though, for my life, I could not see any such great 
wickedness in the few words she had spoken, and that hus- 
sy's carelessness was enough to provoke a saint. But my 
dear mistress did not for a long time give over reproaching 
herself for having, as she said, given way to such unchris- 
tian violence of temper, and she went so far as to demean 
herself to that idle wench that had done all the mischief, 
and told her she was very sorry to have spoken so hastily, 
* however blameable it was in you. Cicely,' says she, ' to 



128 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

disobey my orders ; but I hope it will be a warning to you 
to be more careful in future, and above all, to avoid the fault 
of which I have been so unfortunate as to set you an exam- 
ple.' Lord bless her ! we should all be angels upon earth 
if we could but follow the example she sets us ; and I be- 
lieve, o' my conscience. Cicely has been a steadier and a 
better girl from that very day, for she said, to be sure she 
minded my dear mistress's mild words more than a hundred 
scoldings." 

I hardly knew whether to laugh or cry at Mrs. Betty's 
fragment of secret history ; but I felt that every thing I 
heard about my dear excellent relations, increased my love 
and respect for them. Another little discovery, illustrative 
of Mrs. Helen's character, affected me far more seriously — 
almost painfully — soon after my arrival at the rectory. In 
the bedchamber assigned to me, which, as I told you, com- 
municated with Mrs. Seale's dressing-room, besides the 
wardrobe and drawers allotted to my use, stood a second 
chest, containing, as Mrs. Betty notified to me, table and 
bed-linen, and sundry other things, which she would remove 
if I required additional room. I had much more than suffi- 
cient to contain all my possessions ; but disorder requires 
perpetually expanding elbow-room, and it reigned paramount 
over my wardrobe, till at last all my own drawers being in 
a chaotic state of repletion, I resorted to those over which 
my right extended not, to lay by some article of dress on 
which I was disposed to bestow more than common care. 
I pulled open the first drawer of that same chest, then and 
there lay before me, not the smooth, flat-folded damask, or 
glossy bed-linen, on which I expected to have found room to 
deposit my own dress, but one long, white, glazy garment, 
all frilled and trimmed, and pinked, and scolloped about, in 
a strange uncouth fashion, such as I had never seen before ; 
and yet in a moment — almost at the first glance — I had an 
instinctive shuddering consciousness of its destined appro- 
priation ; and I was standing motionless before the open 
drawer, gazing on its contents with eyes half-blinded by 
tears, but from which no tears fell, when Mrs. Betty en- 
tered the room, and startled me by her hasty exclamation — 



m 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 129 

" Oh, miss ! what are you looking at ?" she cried. " I 
thought that drawer was locked. My mistress desired I 
would take particular care it was while you slept in the 
room ; but I suppose I took out the key without turning it, 
and you see what she has made ready and laid there with 
her own dear hands." 

I asked no question at that minute — indeed there was 
nothing to ask. That visible proof of solemn preparation 
was all-eloquent, and I continued gazing upon it with such 
heart-struck awe, as if the dear and venerable form it was 
one day to attire, had been already shrouded in its chilly 
folds. Language has no words to express that exquisitely 
painful sensation, that agony of intense feeling, which seems 
to contract and compress the heart, and arrest its pulsation, 
under the sudden operation of some distressful cause — and 
then the frightful violence of its restored action !— its seem- 
ingly audible throbs ! — the abrupt sob that bursts forth, saving 
it as it were from breaking ; — the hysterical choking ! — the 
inarticulate attempt to speak ! — I remember how I strug- 
gled with it all on that occasion, which was not (as some 
might hastily conceive) an inadequate cause for such pain- 
ful excitement. It was the first time that Death had been 
brought home to me ; that his insignia had appalled my 
sight ; that his reality had impressed upon my heart its 
ever-afterwards indelible signet. And now the certainty of 
the inevitable doom burst on me, as if it were immediately 
to fall on those I loved so dearly — and I wondered at my 
past security, and thought with a cold shudder of the great 
ages of those beloved friends — of the advanced years of my 
own dear parents — and then I longed, with an agony of ten- 
der impatience, to draw them all close round me together ; 
or rather, that I would encircle them all in one close em- 
brace, never more to lose sight of them for one single minute, 
of those poor numbered few, yet remaining, of their stay 
upon earth. 

The anticipation of my own equally irreversible doom had 
no share in that painful tumult of feeling. It is seldom, I 
believe, that the awful conviction of our own mortality im- 
presses itself forcibly on the heart, while vre are still buoyant 



130 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

with youth and health, and unbroken spirits, and unchastis- 
ed expectations, and untarnished hopes. The paroxysms of 
youthful grief resemble the hail-storm, or the thunder-shower, 
which does not saturate the earth though it defaces its fair 
surface for a season, beating down the delicate flowers and 
the tender herbage. Deeper, far deeper, penetrates the small, 
continued rain — palsying, if ungenially cold, the very heart 
of vegetation ; and so do the cares, and doubts, and disap- 
pointments, and troubles of advancing life, sink deep and 
deeper into the human heart, till its fine springs are broken, 
its beautiful illusions destroyed, its enthusiastic warmth ex- 
tinguished ; and then indeed comes the sensible conviction 
of our own mortality, and that we are hastening down a 
perceptibly rapid declivity, to " the house appointed for all 
living." 

How wisely and mercifully is it ordained, that we should 
acquire thus gradually this solemn conviction ! In early 
life, while all is well with us, we generally connect too in- 
separably the images of Death and the Grave ; but as we 
approach nearer that final earthly home, a further prospect 
opens more distinctly on the Christian's eye ; and though 
the destroying angel stands in the narrow passage, and we 
behold him even in all his revealed terrors, his dark pinions 
cannot intercept from our steady gaze that effulgence of 
glory which overpowers, with the brightness of its promise, 
our natural shrinking from the fearful things which inter- 
vene — from the array of Dissolution — the Shroud — the Cof- 
fin — and the Grave. 

Resides, the weary traveller is content to lie down and 
be at rest. He whose journey is all before him, scarce 
heeding the sage warnings of experienced pilgrims, fancies 
that he at least shall be more fortunate — that he shall disco- 
ver wells of water and pleasant places, which they missed 
in their way over the desert ; or, rather, he fancies that 
" the 'land is a good land," that they have misnamed it a 
wilderness ; and at all events, that there is much time be- 
fore him, (though they call it brief,) — that the end is far 
distant — and he has not learnt to contemplate, much less to 
covet the repose of the grave. He believes in, but he does 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 131 

not feel, his own mortality — no, not even when that of his 
dearest friends is pressed home upon his heart, with that 
starthng force and evidence of truth which so painfully af- 
fected me when I chanced on the discovery of Mrs. Helen's 
solemn preparations. I could not recover myself that whole 
day, nor look at my dear cousin without a strange, choking 
sensation, and my eyes filling with tears ; and, at last, when 
the dear old lady noticed my unusual quietness, and ques- 
tioned me, with kind anxiousness in her gentle voice, whe- 
ther I was ailing or fatigued — the pent-up sorrow fairly got 
the better of me, and I clasped her round the neck, sobbing 
as if my heart would break, to my own unspeakable relief, 
and proportionate surprise and alarm on her part. But after 
much tender inquiry, and many soothing caresses, my hys- 
terical affection, as Mrs. Helen termed it, was set down to 
the effects of over-fatigue, and exhausted spirits, and a res- 
torative cordial was prescribed for me, (not the infallible 
plague- water,) and a comfortable posset was prepared for 
my supper, and I was dismissed early to bed, with many a 
tender kiss and affectionate injunction to sleep well, and not 
exhaust myself in future with over-activity and violent ex- 
ercise. 

On entering my chamber, I looked as fearfully askance 
towards the chest of drawers, as if I had expected that some 
ghastly phantom would occupy its place ; and, before I be- 
gan to undress, satisfied myself that Mrs. Betty had been 
true to her promise of locking fast that terrible repository, 
and taking away the key, as if, by so securing the object 
which had caused me such an unexpected shock, I could 
also exclude from my mind the images that shock had 
awakened. But the phantom was not laid so easily. That 
chest of drawers was to me like the mysterious box, immov- 
ably fixed in a corner of the merchant Abudah's chamber. 
I never looked towards it without something of distressful 
feeling ; and I never became so familiarized with the idea 
of its contents, as to place on it, as I had been accustomed 
to do, my work-box, my flower-glass, or any other of my 
goods and chattels. 

There was no assumption of singularity, or of superior 



132 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XI. 

strength of mind, in Mrs. Helen's funeral preparations. She 
would have concealed them, had it been possible, even from 
her faithful attendant ; and when the latter tenderly remon- 
strated with her on the subject, she observed with a cheerful 
and cheering smile, " It will not kill me one minute the 
sooner, my good Betty ; and, when the time comes, all will 
be ready, without much trouble for any body." 

Besides, the custom of providing burial- clothes was still 
very prevalent in Mrs. Scale's time, among the many prim- 
itive customs of her native land. Of these, all that would 
bear transplanting, she had imported to Broad Summerford 
some fifty years before, when she had accompanied her 
brother thither, on his taking possession of the rectory. — 
Yes, for full fifty years that brother and sister had " dwelt 
together in unity," in that same quiet mansion ; — " lovely 
and inseparable in their lives," indeed, but in their deaths 
not to be united. Not in the grave, at least. Who can 
doubt that they are so, and for eternity, in their Father's 
kingdom ? 

But this has been a long gossip ; and I reserve for 
another day my remaining store of reminiscences from this 
fragment of the family chronicle. 



^ROAD SUMMERFORD. 133 



CHAPTER XII. 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 



i DO believe, continued the faithful historian, that in the whole 
course of her life, Mrs. Helen Seale had never conceived 
(much less indulged) but one purely selfish wish. That one, 
however, was so earnest, that, inasmuch as was consistent 
with the most unreserved submission to the will of Provi- 
dence, she made it her humble and frequent prayer, that it 
might please God to take her to himself, before her beloved 
brother was called to rest from his labours. It was a natu- 
ral — almost a blameless wish. The shrinking of a tender 
and timid spirit, from the prospect of being left to solitary 
decay under the burden of accumulating infirmities, and 
the fond, though perhaps irrational desire, that the earthly 
remains of her beloved companion and her own might 
mingle together in the same grave. 

She was well aware, that if Mr. Seale departed first, the 
poor remnant of her days must find an asylum far from 
Summerford ; and it was her maxim (adapted to the sub- 
ject of interment) that " where the tree falls, there it should 
lie." So she earnestly prayed to God to take her first, if it 
was his good pleasure to do so. 

And Mr. Seale, with like perfect submission to the Divine 
will, whatever its decree, made it his prayer also, that his 
beloved companion might be taken first. Oh ! how affect- 
ing was that wish — how beautifully disinterested ! But he 
reflected truly, that it mattered little how dark — how cheer- 
less — how companionless (humanly speaking) might be the 
last mile of a long journey, provided the lights of Home are 
fixedly in view, and the traveller confidently expects to find 
there, already safe in harbour, the beloved ones who have 
outstripped him on the way. 
12 



184 CHURCHYARDS. ----CHAP. XII. 

But to leave one behind — one dear desolate beings infirm 
and helpless, to tread alone that last dreary portion of life's 
pilgrimage ! It was a momentary pang, repressed as soon 
as felt ; but thai thought entered like iron into the brother's 
soul, as sometimes, while apparently absorbed in his book, 
he gazed with moistened eyes, from under his overshadow- 
ing hand, on the gentle, fragile creature whom he had cher- 
ished and protected for so many years, with a love " passing 
the love of woman." At such moments, his mental ejacu- 
lation was — " Take her first, oh God ! if it seem good unto 
thee." The brother and sister were not ignorant of their 
mutual wish. They had no secrets for each other — no re- 
servation of false tenderness — no mistaken averseness to 
talk together freely and frequently of their approaching 
earthly separation. But that was only spoken of with se- 
rious brevity, with interchanged looks, and clasping hands, 
expressive of mutual encouragement ; and then they dis- 
coursed, long — fully — fondly — almost rapturously, of their 
sure and certain reunion in that Good Land, where there 
shall be no more tears — no more parting — no more sin — no 
more sorrow. 

But though the prayer of the righteous doth most assured- 
ly ascend up into Heaven, and find favour with his Maker, 
it followeth not, therefore, that the All- Wise, who judgeth 
not as man judgeth, may see fit to grant the petition. He 
often grants in wrath, and denies in mercy — contents the 
unreasonable, or perverse, or impious wish, and disappoints 
the blameless and humble desire of the pure and pious heart. 
To the eye of faith His ways are sufiiciently justified, even 
in this world ; and at the consummation of all things, we 
shall understand, as well as acknowledge, their infinite per- 
fection. 

It was not the good pleasure of their heavenly Father, 
that the aged pair at Summerford rectory should depart 
thence to their better habitation, in the order that might 
have seemed happiest for them, to human judgment. The 
gentlest, the weakest, the most infirm, the most helpless, 
was left behind, to superficial observation, alone and deso- 
late. The beloved brother, the tender companion, the faith- 



BROAD SUM MERFORD. 135 

ful comforter, the life-long friend, was called first to his 
reward ; and when the hour of parting actually arrived, 
both felt — the departing Christian and she who had so little 
while to tarry after him— that a strong arm was around 
them in their trial, and that it was indeed a matter of small 
moment, which first overstepped the threshold of eternity. 
There were after-moments in store for the bereaved survivor 
(and she knew it well) of natural weakness — of inexpressi- 
ble anguish — of conscious desolation ; but the anticipation 
of those troubled not the almost divine composure which 
irradiated her meek countenance, as she partook with her 
expiring brother of those consecrated elements, which she 
had so often received from his own hands, at the altar of 
that church wherein he had ministered so long, and so faith- 
fully. 

There was not a dry eye among the many hundred per- 
sons assembled in and about the churchyard of Broad Sum- 
merford, on the day of Mr. Scale's funeral — not a dry eye 
throughout the whole assemblage, except those of the ven- 
erable greyhaired man immediately following the two gen- 
tlemen who attended as chief mourners. He walked quite 
alone — bowed down with the burden of threescore years 
and ten, and of a sorrow which sought no vent in outward 
demonstration. His hand had helped to arrange the pall 
over the coffin of his dead master. His arm (as the corpse 
was carried through the door- way) had been stretched for- 
ward with cautionary gesture — for word he spake not — as 
if to guard the insensible burden from rude or sudden con- 
tact ; and his dim eyes were never for a moment diverted 
from that last object of his earthly care, till it was laid in 
its appointed house, and the cords were withdrawn from be- 
neath the coffin, and the earth rattled on its lid, and had 
covered up for ever from mortal sight, all of the departed 
saint over which the grave was permitted to assert its vic- 
tory. Then, as having fulfilled his office even unto the 
end, John Somers raised his eyes from earth to heaven, his 
lips quivering with a few words of inward ejaculation, and 
turning slowly from the brink of the grave — and yet paus- 
ing to look back on it, with an expression that seemed to 



136 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XII. 

say, " Why may I not now lie down beside my master ?" — 
he shook his head as it declined upon his breast ; and so, 
silently acknowledging the kind but unavailing sympathy 
of the many who would have pressed about him with well- 
meant ofhciousness, he passed on quietly through the hushed 
assemblage, and laying his hand on the ready shoulder of 
his young grand-nephew, slowly and feebly retraced his 
steps towards the rectory, and up to his own chamber, and 
taking his bed almost immediately, he arose thence no more 
— till, at the end of a few weeks^having received the 
grateful farewell of his aged mistress — for whose service, 
had it been permitted, he would still have consented to live 
a little longer — he also was borne along the churchyard 
path, and interred in the same grave with his revered master. 
Such had been Mr. Scale's testamentary request, in case 
his old servant (who had been long declining) should end 
his days at Summerford. He also gave directions respect- 
ing the memorial stone, which should mark out the place of 
their joint sepulchre ; and it may be seen to this day under 
the shade of a broad maple, which stands in the east corner 
of Summerford churchyard — a plain thick slab of grey mar- 
ble — on which it is simply recorded, that 

UNDERNEATH 

LIETH THE BODY 

OF 

THE REV. JOHN SEALE, 

AGED 83 YEARS, 

(52 OP WHICH HE HAD BEEN MINISTER TO THAT PARISH ;) 

AND OF HIS FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

JOHN SOMERS, 

AGED 81 YEARS. 

Amidst the incessant fluctuation of human afiTairs, of those 
especially characterizing the state of society in our own 
country, there are few circumstances more generally aflTect- 
ing than the departure of a widow from her husband's house. 
Even under the most favourable aspect — when she departs 
in ease and affluence — voluntarily departs — -voluntarily, at 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 137 

the suggestion of her own judgment, resigns the home of 
which she has been so long sole mistress, into the rule of a 
tender son, and of a daughter-in-law scarcely less dutiful 
than Ruth — both of whom would fain detain her, to be, with 
her wisdom and her grey hairs, the crown and glory of their 
household — 3ven under circumstances so favoured, it cannot 
be but that the woman most firm of purpose, must feel (if 
she have common sensibility) some natural yearning, some 
momentary pang, when she looks back on that abode, to 
which, in the prime of her youth and beauty, she was led a 
young and happy bride — where her children first saw the 
light, and grew up like olive branches about their parent's 
table — and going forth into the world, returned and returned 
again to the blessed re-union of the domestic circle — where 
she bore mild rule over her household, setting it the pattern 
of her own pure and virtuous life — where no poor man ever 
turned unrelieved from her gate, and no neighbour unwel- 
comed from her hospitable door — and where, above all, she 
has shared with the partner of her life their common cup of 
hopes and fears, of joy and sorrow, of fruition and disap- 
pointment — where they had grown grey together, encour- 
aging one another in the down-hill way, till at last the fiat 
of separation came, and, with a woman's devotedness, she 
had received the departing breath, and closed the expiring 
eye. A.11 these, and innumerable other affecting recollec- 
tions, must crowd together into the widow's heart, when she 
looks back upon that home which she shall no more re-enter 
but as a temporary guest. But when her departure is not 
voluntary — when her dweUing devolves to strangers, or to 
distant kindred, and therefore she must leave it — or to a 
heartless son, who, to the prayer of " the asking eye," an- 
swereth not " abide with us, my mother," and therefore she 
must leave it — or when (being attached to church prefer- 
ment) it passeth into the hands of a new incumbent, and 
thereifore she must leave it — (ah ! how often under circum- 
stances of accumulated distress !) then, indeed, it is painful 
to think of the departure of a widow from her husband's 
house. 

12* 



13d CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XII. 

Never widow sustained a heavier loss by the best husband^s 
death, than did Mrs. Helen Scale by that of the best of bro- 
thers. And by his decease the living of Broad Summerford 
falling to a new rector, she had of course to provide another 
home for the short residue of her earthly sojourn. The 
choice of that asylum was hardly left to her own free-will, 
so pressing were the entreaties of her numerous kindred that 
she would take up her abode among them in her native isl- 
and. I fear, indeed, that she was sorely beset on the occa- 
sion, and that, when finally prevailed on to fix her residence 
beneath the roof of two female cousins, she rather yielded 
<jji to importunity, and to what she considered a grateful sense 
of their desire to accommodate her, than to the secret incli- 
nations of her own meek and affectionate heart, whose dic- 
tates, had she attended to them only, would probably have 
induced her to re-establish herself in England, in the vicin- 
ity of my parents, her most beloved, and, I may say, most 
disinterestedly attached relations. But matters were ordered 
otherwise. The maiden sisters obtained Mrs. Helen's pro- 
mise to establish herself with them ; and it was furthermore 
decreed, that a male relation of both parties, one of Mr. 
Scale's executors, should escort her to her new place of 
abode, when the affairs which were likely to detain her in 
England were finally arranged. In truth, the necessary de- 
lay was to her a respite ; for grievous as was the void in all 
her home enjoyments, irreparable as was the change at the 
rectory, it was still full of associations and recollections more 
precious to her than any social comforts the world had now 
to offer. 

It was soon known at Summerford, that the living was 
already bestowed, by its young titled patron, on a college 
friend of his own standing, just qualified to hold it ; and ru- 
mor prepared the parishioners to expect in him a pastoral 
guide of very different character from that of their late ven- 
erable minister. Mr. Seale's curate was, however, contin- 
ued in his functions pro tempore, and for a few weeks no- 
thing decisive was known of the new rector. 

In as far as was compatible with the great change which 
had taken place in her earthly circumstances — and in spite 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 139 

of her approaching removal — so omnipotent is habit, that 
Mrs. Helen had again fallen quietly into the routine of her 
accustomed occupations and household cares ; and a super- 
ficial observer would have perceived little alteration in her 
deportment and person, except that the former was some- 
what more subdued and serious — that her quiet movements 
were more slow and feeble — and that she looked more aged, 
partly from an increased stoop in her gait, and from the ex- 
change of her usual attire for a still closer garb of the deep- 
est mourning. Her soft fair hair, scarcely silvered till her 
brother's death, but now completely blanched, was no longer 
smoothed up over the roll beneath her clear lawn cap, but 
parted and combed straight on either side, under the broad 
mourning hems of a close mob ; and a large black silk hand- 
kerchief, crossed over her bosom, almost concealed the un- 
der one of thick white muslin. Thus habited, Mrs. Helen 
was one evening engaged in her store-room, superintending 
and assisting in the homely office, of which I have before 
made mention — that of sugar-nipping. One of Mrs. Betty's 
aprons was pinned before her own, but Mrs. Betty herself 
had been despatched on some errand to a distant part of the 
house ; and the former comely embonpoint of that faithful 
handmaid having amplified to a vast weight of portliness, 
she moved with corresponding majesty of gait, and was long 
absent on her five minutes' mission. It was near midsum- 
mer — not a leaf stirred in the glow of a cloudless sunset — 
not a domestic creature, fowl, beast, or biped, was visible 
about the rectory, every door and window of which were 
flung wide open, so that a stranger might have entered un- 
noticed, and found his way unimpeded into every chamber 
of the mansion. Suddenly wheels were heard rapidly ap- 
proaching the entrance gate. Then the short pull up and 
knowing check of some dashing Jehu, as he flung the reins 
with various charges to an attendant groom — then the clink- 
ing of spurs and the creaking of boots across the court — in 
the entrance-hall, (for no regular summons was sounded, 
and no servant appeared to question the intruder) — in the 
parlour — along the vestibule — and at last in the very passage 
conducting to Mrs. Helen's sacred apartment — the whole 



140 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XII. 

progress being accompanied by certain musical variations 
between a song and a whistle, and the pattering of four-foot- 
ed creatures, and the admonitions of—" Down, Ponto ; 
down, sir !" " Back, Di ; back, you toad !"— apparently un- 
heeded by the canine offenders, for in they rushed, a brace 
of noble pointers, into the very presence of Mrs. Helen, and 
immediately their noisy owner stood in propria persona, on 
the very threshold of her sanctuary. There stood the dear 
old lady, not exactly 

" With locks flung back, and lips apart, 
Fit monument of Grecian art ;" 

but certainly with " lips apart," and slightly quivering with 
surprise and trepidation — her mild blue eyes, expressive of 
strange perplexity, the nippers in one hand and a lump of 
sugar in the other ; and, as I told you, Mrs. Betty's apron 
(a checked one as it happened) pinned over her own of 
snowy muslin. And there stood the intruder, a handsome, 
good-humoured-looking coxcomb, six feet high, in a pepper- 
and-salt frock, tight buckskins, and yellow-topped boots ; a 
most unclerical beaver rakishly set on one side — a silver 
whistle dangling from his button-hole, and an eyeglass 
round his neck, through which he took deliberate cogni- 
zance of the apartment and its venerable occupant. The 
latter soon became aware, that, in the phenomenon before 
her, she beheld the successor of her late revered brother ; 
and before the shock and amazement incident on that dis- 
covery had any way subsided, the young parson, evidently 
mistaking her for a housekeeper, or upper servant, proceeded 
to make very unceromonious observations and enquiries ; 
almost immediately, however, cutting short the string of his 
own queries, by the still more cavalier address of — " But 
that will do by-and-by — time enough to ransack the old 
kennel — and now I'm starving— so despatch, old girl ! 
D'ye hear ? and get me something to eat, if you've any 
prog in the house." 

Mrs. Helen was aware of his mistake, and neither morti- 
fied nor indignant at the unaccustomed salutation ; on the 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 141 

contrary, when she heard this pressing appeal to her hospi- 
tahty, the natural disgust excited by his unclerical appear- 
ance, gave place to her innate kindliness ; and anxious to 
supply his wants — and, if possible, with the particular sort of 
viand which she imagined him to have specified, she looked 
up in his face with grave simphcity, and very seriously in- 
quired — " Pray, sir, what is prog ?" 

The question set him off in a roar of laughter, and, before 
the fit had half subsided, Mrs. Betty's entrance undeceived 
him as to the rank of the person he had been so jocularly 
addressing; and then the young man, who, though very 
unclerically disposed, was neither unfeeling nor ill-bred, 
became really confused and distressed at the recollection of 
his absurd behaviour, and endeavoured to atone for it by 
the most respectful apologies. They were very placably 
accepted ; and a servant having been summoned to show 
the new rector to a sitting-room, or to his chamber — ^or, if 
it suited his convenience, to take a brief survey of the man- 
sion to which he came with a master's right, Mrs. Helen 
gave directions for the preparation of such refreshments as 
could be served up with the least delay ; and her famished 
guest found them so excellent in their way, that his respect 
for the hospitable entertainer increased with every mouth- 
ful ; and it was magnified to absolute veneration by the 
time his repast was concluded. 

A breakfast table, supplied with the finest Mocha coffee, 
the most perfect " green imperial," the most savoury potted 
meats, the richest orange marmalade, and the thickest 
cream he had ever regaled on, put the clim_ax to his ecstatic 
admiration of the venerable hostess ; and if at that moment 
he did not actually conceive the idea of addressing her with 
matrimonial proposals — the possibiUty of detaining her as 
superintendent of his future establishment, did certainly 
suggest itself—" For, what could I do better ?" he very ra- 
tionally soliloquized—" a nice, kind, motherly old lady ! — 
gives capital feeds ! — never tasted such potted shrimps ! — 
makes tea Uke an angel ! — won't be much in the way — (not 
half so bad as a wife)— and I must have somebody." 

Very rational cogitations !-:--But the young rector W9-s too 



142 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XII. 

politic and well-bred to broach the subject abruptly to his 
ladylike hostess ; and having informed himself of all partic- 
ulars respecting her— of her high respectability and perfect 
independence- — that knowledge, though it confirmed his de- 
sire to detain her at the rectory, made him aware that his 
only chance of success would be to ingratiate himself by 
respectful attention, and, if possible, to interest her kind 
feelings in his behalf, before he ventured on the grand pro- 
posal. It was by no means difficult to effect the latter ob- 
ject. Mrs. Helen's benevolence extended itself over every 
thing that lived and breathed ; and her new inmate, besides 
that he sedulously cultivated her good opinion, really pos- 
sessed many amiable, and some sterling qualities. 

Left, in his earliest infancy, to the sole care of a doting 
widowed mother, he had been a most affectionate and duti- 
ful son ; and tender recollections of his lost parent (whose 
death was yet recent) made him more feelingly alive to the 
maternal kindness of his new acquaintance. He was by no 
means viciously disposed, though the world and the world's 
ways had too much influence over a heart of which the 
clerical profession was not the free disinterested choice ; 
and though it was too probable that in many and material 
points he would fall far short of the late rector's amiable ex- 
ample, he showed an early and sincere intention to emulate 
it in beneficence at least, and only required to be directed 
in the distribution of his bounty by Mrs. Helen's judgment 
and experience. 

He could scarcely have urged a more efficient plea for the 
venerable lady's continuance at Broad Summerford ; and, 
moreover, he succeeded in exciting her compassion for his 
utter inexperience in housekeeping and the management of 
a family, and for the loneliess to which he should be con- 
demned if she persevered in her intention of departure ; and, 
by a master-stroke of policy, he so craftily insinuated him- 
self into Mrs. Betty's good graces, as to enlist all her influ- 
ence in his favour, so that the ancient handmaiden lost no 
opportunity of observing to her lady, that it would be almost 
a sin to leave such an innocent open-hearted young gentle- 
man, no more fit to keep house than the babe unborn, to be 



BEOAD SUMMERFORD. 143 

preyed upon and devoured like a lamb among a flock of 
wolves, by a pack of idle rogues and hussies. " And then," 
said she, " though to be sure he falls far short of what has 
been at the rectory, and can never come up to that, yet who 
knows ma'am, what we might make of him in the end : and, 
at any rate, you would not think of leaving him, just as the 
pickUng and preserving time is coming on, and there is not 
so much as a pot of black currant jelly left, (and he told me 
he was subject to bad sore throats,) and all the tincture of 
rhubarb and the senna walnuts are out, and Betty Hinks 
had the last of the palsy-water yesterday ; and I am sure 
you would not choose to leave him only the bare shelves, 
poor young gentleman, or without a handsome stock of 
every thing good and comfortable. Besides, I've just set 
Cicely about a set of new shirts for him — (I got the cam- 
bric a bargain ;) and then there's all his household linen to 

be provided, though, to be sure, if we were to stay " 

If Mrs. Betty had studied the art of oratory, she could 
not more happily have timed the pause politic. Her incom- 
plete sentence — -" If we were to stay ~" left Mrs. Helen 

to ponder over all the real good she might do, if she did 
stay — and her secret enumeration went further, perhaps, 
and extended to nobler views, than were particularized in 
Mrs. Betty's catalogue. " To do good," was the most in- 
fluential of all motives with one of Mrs. Helen's truly Chris- 
tian character — and to bless had been the business of her 
life. Now, though bereaved of him in whose life hers had 
been bound up, those affections which had centred in him 
did not all shrink inward, absorbed in selfish sorrow ; and 
they had been greatly won upon by the respectful and almost 
filial attention of her young acquaintance. There was no 
congeniality of disposition between herself and the persons 
who had importuned her to dwell among them, neither had 
they any near or dear claims upon her ; and then, though 
she had never uttered one idle regret, never indulged one 
thought that savoured of repining, her heart clung to the 
earth — the very earth of Broad Summerford — above all, to 
that narrow portion of it hallowed by the grave of her be- 
loved companion. All these considerations, and possibly 



144 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. Xll. 

something of the natural effect of age on a singularly geti« 
tie character, the force of habit, the dread of change, the 
formidable prospect of a journey and a voyage of isolation 
among strangers- — all these considerations and circumstan- 
ces co-operated so well with the young rector's persuasive 
eloquence, that Mrs. Helen would probably have ended her 
days at Broad Summerford, had she been left to her own 
uncontrolled decision. 

But she had some thousands at her sole disposal, and the 
tender solicitude with which her distant kindred had pressed 
her to reside among them, was so far from suffering any 
abatement by " hope deferred," that it kindled into a glow 
of inexpressible impatience for her removal from Broad 
Summerford, when they became aware that the unexpected 
conduct of the new rector had more than half-reconciled her 
to continue there ; so they zealously bestirred themselves in 
assisting her to arrange the affairs which still required her 
presence in England. Business that (as they had lately 
averred) would require months to settle, was now disposed 
of in as many days. Difficulties were smoothed, objections 
levelled, obstacles removed, (no such pioneer as interested 
zeal,) promises insisted on, claims of blood, of affection, of 
propriety, urged imperatively, almost reproachfully, till the 
object was effected ; and the good old lady, with her ancient 
abigail, the staid Cicely, and John Somers's grand-nephew, 
(now advanced to his uncle's office,) were uprooted from 
their peaceful home, and transported the weary way by sea 
and land, to that v/hich had been provided for them under 
the roof of the maiden sisters, whose capacious and commo- 
dious dwelling had obtained for them the warmly-contested 
privilege of receiving, or rather making prize of their " dear 
cousin." 

I wish I could tell you — I wish I could persuade myself, 
that the remaining years of my dear old friend found a hap- 
py and serene asylum in that which she was rather com- 
pelled than persuaded to accept. At best, the contrast 
between that latter home, and the one she had so long 
inhabited, must have been felt painfully. But I fear, I 
fear, all was not done that might have been done, to render 



» BilOAl) SUaiMERFOKD. 145 

the change less striking — that when the removal was finally 
effected — and the " dear cousin" safely deposited within a 
ring-fence of kindred surveillance, that love grew cold, and 
zeal relaxed, and respect abated of its observances ; and as 
the meek spirit bowed down with the declining frame, ad- 
vantage was taken of those affecting circumstances ; and 
she who, under the fostering care of watchful affection, or 
even in the quiet independence of her own free home, 
might still have supported her honoured part in society, and 
tasted the sweets of social intercourse, sunk into a very 
cipher, obviously treated as such, in an establishment, of 
which, though spoken of as a household partnership, she 
bore the entire charges. And when, about two years after 
the removal from Summerford, it pleased God (by a sudden 
stroke) to deprive her of her faithful friend and servant, 
whose indignant spirit and honest zeal had in some measure 
stemmed the tide of encroachments on the independence of 
her more gentle and passive mistress — when it pleased God 
to take away from her this faithful creature, under various 
frivolous pretences, it was soon afterwards contrived to 
remove from about her the two other attached servants who 
had followed her fortunes from Summerford. 

" What need of two ?" they said, " what need of one ? 
To follow in a house, where twice so many 
Have a command to tend you ? 

" I pr'ythee, lady ! being weak, seem so. 
All's not offence that indiscretion finds, 
And dotage terms so." 

But the mild nature so heartlessly aggrieved took no of- 
fence — complained of no injuries — resisted no indignities. 
Unhappily, perhaps, she was too silent, too passive ; for a 
word of appeal from herself would have brought friends, and 
firm ones, to her rescue. But she was timid by nature, and 
her mental energies gave way at the first shock of unkind- 
ness. Her life was protracted to an unusual extent ; but 
for many years before her death, repeated, though silent pa- 
13 



146 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XII. 

lalytic seizures had partially deprived her of the use of 
speech. Partially only ; for though unable to express her 
wants and wishes in explicit language, or to utter a sentence 
in common conversation, she could recite the Psalms — the' 
whole book of Psalms — with unfailing accuracy and unfalter- 
ing articulation ; and those sacred songs became her language, 
adapted and applied to all such subjects as she was inclined 
to notice, with an aptness and promptitude which bespoke 
an inspired, rather than a disordered intellect ; and hers was 
not disordered. The fearful spirit sank under oppression 
and neglect ; but the believing soul took refuge with its 
God — communed continually with him in the sublimest of 
all strains ; and it is not presumptuous to believe, that when 
the faltering tongue breathed out that pathetic appeal — 
" Leave me not in the time of mine old age, neither forsake 
me when my strength faileth me" — it is not too much to be- 
lieve that an answer was immediately vouchsafed, and that 
the inward ears were blessed with the sound of that gracious 
assurance — " I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." To 
the last (for such sublime colloquy) her utterance and her 
intellect failed not. From the period that those divine songs 
had become her sole language, she had continually recited 
them in the accents of her mother-tongue, and one who stood 
beside her death-bed told me, that the moment before her 
departure, she slowly and audibly articulated — 

" Mon ame, retourne, en ton repos, car I'Eternal t'a fait 
du bien. Je marcherai en la presence de I'Eternal, dans la 
terre des vivans " 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 147 



CHAPTER XIII. 

THE HAUNTED CHUIICHYARD. 

A FRIEND of mine, with whom I Lately compared church- 
yard " experiences,^^ gave me a little narrative of one which 
had recently fallen to his share, during an angling excur^ 
sion in one of our northern counties. It will he best and 
easiest to let the narrator speak in his person ; so, without 
further preamble, " I tell the tale as it was told to me." 

Arriving about dark one evening at a large village, 
where I proposed taking up my quarters for the night, I ob- 
served a general stir and agitation, as if a beehive were 
pouring forth its swarming colonists ; and as I proceeded 
down the long straggling street, towards the sign of the 
" Jolly Miller," the whole population of the place seemed 
streaming ir) the opposite direction of the churchyard, which 
I had passed at the entrance of the village. Men, women, 
and children were hurrying along, with an appearance of 
eager trepidation ; and there was a general hum of voices, 
though every one seemed to speak below his natural key, 
except a few blustering youngsters, who were whetting 
their own courage, by l>oaHting of it with valiant oaths and 
asseverations, and ridiculing the cowardice of the women 
and children. The latter were running along close by 
their mothers, holding fast by their gowns or af)rons, and 
every minute pressing nearer, and looking up in their faces, 
with eyes of f<iarful inquiry. As the difieront groups scud- 
ded swiftly by me, I caught here and there a few disjointed 
words about " a ghost," and " the churchyard," and " all in 
white," and " old Andrew," and " ten foot high," and 
" very awful !" Hnlf-tempted was I to turn with the 
stream, and wind up my day's sport with a ghost hunt ; but 
the sign of the Jolly Miller waving before me, and the 



148 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

brown loaf, and foaming can, so naturally depicted thereon, 
were irresistible attractions to a poor piscator, who had 
fasted since early morning from all but the delights of ang- 
ling ; and who, as day declined, had followed the windings 
of the stream for many a weary mile, to seek rest and re- 
freshment at the village hostelrie. It was well for me that 
I arrived not in equestrian equipage ; for neither landlord, 
hostler, nor male biped of any denomination was visible 
about the large old house and its adjacent stable-yard. 
But I needed no attendance ; so stooping with my shoulder- 
load of rod, basket, and landing-net, as I stepped down one 
step into the low, heavy, old porch, I passed straight on 
into the kitchen, where a blazing fire in the huge gaping 
chimney gave me a cheerful welcome, though neither there, 
nor in the adjoining tap-room, could I espy signs or tokens 
of any living creature. 

I could have been well contented to take silent posses- 
sion of one of the high-backed settles within the inglenook, 
had there been wherewithal within reach to appease " the 
rage of hunger," whose importunate calls were rather incited 
than suppressed by the feeling of warmth and comfort 
which circulated through my whole frame, as I stood beside 
the companionable hearth. So I called lustily, and thumped 
the end of my fishing-rod against the heavy oak table and 
dark wooden partition, till at last came hurrying forth from 
an inner chamber, a little old woman, whose sharp shrivelled 
face betokened no mood of sweet complacency. But a few 
words, intimating my intentions of sojourning in her house 
that night, and my voracious designs upon her larder and 
ale-butt, smoothed, as if by magic, half the wrinkles in her 
face, and put her in such good-humour, with me at least, 
that she would fain have installed me into the chilling mag- 
nificence of the parlour, whose sanded and boarded floor, 
and dismal tireless grate, nodding with plumes of fennel, 
like the Enchanted Helmet in the Castle of Otranto, I was 
obliged to glance at, though the first glimpse sent me back 
with shivering eagerness to the comforts of the kitchen- 
hearth, where at last I was permitted to settle myself, while 
mine hostess spread for me a little claw-table, with a snow- 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 149 

white cloth, and set about preparing my savoury supper of 
fried eggs and rashers. 

It was not till I had despatched two courses of those, 
with a proportionate quantum of "jolly good ale and old," 
that I found leisure, while attacking the picturesque ruins 
of a fin« old Cheshire cheese, to question mine ancient host- 
ess respecting those signs of popular agitation which had 
excited my curiosity as I came through the village. My 
enquiry set wide open the floodgates of her eloquence and 
indignation. " Well 1 might ask," she said, " but, for her 
part, she was almost ashamed to tell me what fools the folks 
made of themselves, — her master among 'em, — who was 
old enough to know better, Lord help him ! than to set 
off, night after night, galloping after a ghost, — with Bob 
Ostler at his heels, and that idle hussy Beckey, — leaving 
her to mind the house, and look to every thing, and be rob- 
bed and murdered for what they knew, — and all for what 
quotha ? She wished, when their time came, they might 
lie half as quiet in their graves as old Andrew did in his, 
for all their nonsensical crazy talk about his walking o' 
nights." I waited patiently till the 'larum had unwound 
itself, then taking up that part of the desultory invective 
which more immediately related to the haunted churchyard, 
and its unquiet tenant, I got the old lady fairly into the 
mood of story. telling ; and from what she then related to 
me, and from after gleanings among other inhabitants of 
the village, succeeded in stringing together a tolerably con- 
nected narrative. 

Andrew Cleaves, whose remains had been interred the 
preceding week in Redburn Churchyard, was the oldest 
man in its large and populous parish, and had been one of 
the most prosperous among its numerous class of thriving 
and industrious husbandmen. 

His little property, which had descended from father to 
son for many generations, consisted of a large and comfort- 
able cottage, situated on the remote verge of the village 
common, a productive garden, and a few fields, which he 
cultivated so successfully, rising up early, and late taking 
rest, that by the time he had attained the middle period of 
13* 



150 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

life, he was enabled to rent a score more acres — had got to- 
gether a pretty stock of cattle, had built a barn, and enclos- 
ed a rick-yard, and drove as fine a team as any in the par- 
ish — was altogether accounted a man " well to do in the 
world," and was generally addressed by the style and title 
of " Farmer Cleaves." Then, and not till then, and still 
with most phlegmatic deliberation, he began to look about 
him for a partner : a help meet, in the true homely sense of 
the word, was the wife he desired to take unto himself ; and 
it was all in vain — " Love's Labour Lost" — that many a 
wealthy farmer's flaunting daughter, and many a gay dam- 
sel of the second table, from my lord's and the squire's, and 
divers other fair ones, set their caps at wary Andrew, and 
spake sweet words to him when chance threw them in his 
path, and looked sweet looks at him when he sat within eye- 
shot at church, in his own old oaken pew, hard by the clerk's 
desk, with his tall, bony, athletic person erect as a poker, 
and his coal-black hair (glossy as the raven's wing) combed 
smooth down over his forehead, till it touched the parallel 
line of two straight jetty eyebrows, almost meeting over the 
high curved nose, and overhanging a pair of eyes, dark, 
keen, and lustrous, but, withal, of a severe and saturnine 
expression, well in keeping with that of the closely com- 
pressed lips and angular jaw. Those lips were not made to 
utter tender nonsense, nor those eyes for ogling, verily ; but 
the latter were sharp and discerning enough to find out such 
qualifications as he had laid down to himself, as indispensa- 
ble in his destined spouse, among which (though Andrew 
Cleaves was justly accounted a close, penurious man) mo- 
ney was not a paramount consideration, as he wisely argued 
within himself, a prudent wife might save him a fortune 
though she did not bring one. A small matter by way of 
portion could not come amiss, however ; and Andrew natu- 
rally weighed in with her other perfections the twenty years' 
savings of the vicar's housekeeper, whose age did not greatly 
exceed his own, who was acknowledged to be the best house- 
wife in the parish, and the most skilful dairy-woman, having 
come from a famous cheese country, whose fashions she had 
successfully introduced at Redburn Vicarage. Beside which, 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 151 

Mrs. Dinah was a staid, quiet person — not given to gadding, 
and gossiping, and idle conversation ; and, " moreover," 
quoth Andrew, " I have a respect unto the damsel, and, ver- 
ily, I might go farther and fare worse." 

" Marry in haste and repent at leisure," was, however, 
another of Andrew's favourite sayings, so he took another 
year or two to consider the matter in all its bearings ; but 
as all things earthly come to an end, so at last did Andrew 
Cleaves's ponderings ; and as his actual wooing was by no 
means so tedious an affair, and as the discreet Dinah had 
had ample time for deliberation while the important question 
was pending, the favoured suitor was not kept long on the 
rack of uncertainty, and the third Sunday, which completed 
the bans, saw Mrs. Dinah " endowed," by Andrew Cleaves, 
with " all his worldly goods," and installed Lady and Mis- 
tress of his hitherto lonely dwelling. 

He had no reason to repent his choice. For once Dame 
Fortune (so often reviled for her strange blunders in match- 
making — so often accused of "joining the gentle with the 
rude,") had hooked together two kindred souls ; and it 
seemed, indeed, as if Andrew had only reunited to himself 
a sometime divided portion of his own nature, so marvellous- 
ly did he and his prudent Dinah sympathize in their views, 
habits, and principles. Thrift — thrift — thrift — and the ac- 
cumulation of worldly substance, was the end and aim of all 
their thoughts, dreams, and undertakings ; yet were they ri- 
gidly just and honest in all their dealings, even beyond the 
strict letter of the law, of which they scorned to take advan- 
tage in a doubtful matter ; and Andrew Cleaves had been 
known more than once to come forward to the assistance of 
distressed neighbours, (on good security indeed,) but on 
more liberal terms than could have heen expected from one 
of his parsimonious habits, or than were offered by persons of 
more reputed generosity. 

Moreover, he was accounted — and he surely accounted 
himself — a very religious man, and a very pious Christian — 
" a serious Christian" he denominated himself; and such a 
one he was in good truth, if a sad and grave aspect — solemn 
speech, much abounding in scriptural phrases — slow de- 



152 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

livery — erect deportment, and unsocial reserve, constitute 
fair claims to this distinction. Moreover, he was a regular 
church-goer — an indefatigable reader of his Bible, (of the 
Old Testament, and the Epistles in particular,) — fasted ri- 
gidly on all days appointed by the church — broke the heads 
of all the little boys who whistled, within his hearing, on 
Sabbaths and Saints' days — said immoderate long graces be- 
fore and after meals, and sang hymns by the hour, though 
he had no more voice than a cracked pitcher, and not ear 
enough to distinguish between the tunes of the 100th Psalm 
and " Molly put the kettle on." 

Besides all this, he had been a dutiful, if not an affection- 
ate son — was a good, if not a tender husband — a neighbour 
of whose integrity no one doubted — a most respectable pa- 
rishioner ; and yet, with all this, Andrew Cleaves's was not 
vital religion, for it partook not of that blessed spirit of love, 
meekness, and charity, which vaunteth not itself — is not 
puffed up — thinketh no evil of its neighbour — neither ma- 
keth broad its phylacteries, nor prayeth in the corners of 
market-places, to be seen of men. He was neither extor- 
tionate nor a drunkard. He gave tithes of all that he pos- 
sessed. He did not give half his goods to feed the poor, 
but, nevertheless, contrived to make out such a catalogue of 
claims on the peculiar favour of Heaven, as very comforta- 
bly satisfied his own conscience, and left him quite at lei- 
sure to "despise others." 

It had been the misfortune of Andrew Cleaves, to have 
imbibed from his parents those narrow views of Christianity ; 
and their early death had left him an unsociable being, un- 
loving, unloved, and unconnected, till he changed his single 
for a married state. 

" Habits are stubborn things ; 
And by the time a man is turn'd of forty, 
His ruling passions grow so haughty, 
There is no clipping of his wings." 

Now Andrew was full forty-three when he entered the pale 
of matrimony, and the staid Dinah, three good years his 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 153 

senior, had no wish to clip them, being, as we have demon- 
strated, his very counterpart, his " mutual heart" in all es- 
sential points ; so, without a spark of what silly swains and 
simple maidens call love, and some wedded folks, " tender 
friendship," our serious couple jogged on together in a per- 
fect matrimonial railroad of monotonous conformity ; and 
Andrew Cleaves might have gone down to his grave uncon- 
scious that hearts were made for any other purpose than to 
circulate the blood, if the birth of a son, in the second year 
of his union, had not opened up in his bosom such a foun- 
tain of love and tenderness, as gushed out, like water from 
the flinty rock, and became thenceforth the master passion, 
the humanizing feeling of his stern and powerful character. 
The mother's fondness — and she was a fond mother — was 
nothing, compared with that with which the father doted on 
his babe ; and he would rock its cradle, or hush it in his 
arms, or sing to it by the hour, though the lullaby seldom va- 
ried from the 100th Psalm, and, as he danced it to the same 
exhilarating tune, it was a wonder that the little Josiah 
clapped his hands and crowed with antic mirth, instead of 
comporting himself with the solemnity of a parish clerk in 
swaddling clothes. 

It was strange and pleasant to observe, how the new and 
holy feeling of parental love penetrated, like a fertilizing 
dew, the hitherto hard, insensible nature of Andrew Cleaves; 
how it extended its sweet influence beyond the exciting ob- 
ject (the infant darling) to his fellow creatures in general, 
disposing his heart to kindliness and pity, and almost to 
sociability. In the latter virtue, he made so great progress 
as to invite a few neighbours to the christening feast, charg- 
ing his dame to treat them handsomely to the best of every 
thing ; and he himself, for the first time in his life " on 
hospitable thoughts intent," pressed and smiled, and played 
the courteous host to a miracle. 

And sometimes, on his way home of an evening, he 
would stop and exchange a few words with an acquaintance 
at his cottage door, attracted by the sight of some chubby 
boy, with whose stout limbs and infant vigour he would 
compare, in his mind's eye, the healthful beauty of his own 



» 



154 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XIII. 

urchin. But great indeed was the amazement of Dame 
Cleaves, when Andrew, who had always " set his face like 
a flint" against the whole tribe of idle mendicants, making 
it a rule not only to chase them from his own door, but to 
consign them, if possible, to the wholesome coercion of the 
parish stocks, actually went the length of bestowing a com- 
fortable meal, a night's shelter in an outhouse, and a bed of 
clean straw, on a soldier's widow, who was travelling, with 
her babe in her arms, towards the far distant home of its 
dead father. 

Dame Cleaves stared in strange perplexity, and said 
something about " charity beginning at home," and " com- 
ing to want," and "harbouring idle hussies and their brats." 
But Andrew was peremptory, for his eye had glanced from 
the poor soldier's fatherless babe to the cherished creature 
at that time nestling in his own bosom. So the widow 
was " warmed and fed," and left a blessing on her benefac- 
tor, who, on his part, failed not to accompany his parting 
" God speed you," and the small piece of money which ac- 
companied it, with an impressive lecture on the sinfulness 
of want and pauperism, and a comfortable assurance, that 
they were always deserved manifestations of divine dis- 
pleasure. 

Just as the litttle Josiah had attained his second year, 
Andrew Cleaves was called on to resign the wife of his bo- 
som, who went the way of all flesh, after a short but sharp 
illness. She had so fully realized all the calculations that 
had decided Andrew to choose her for his mate, that he re- 
gretted her loss very sincerely ; but resignation, he justly 
observed, was the duty of a Christian, and Andrew was 
wonderfully resigned and composed, even in the early days 
of his bereavement, throwing out many edifying comments 
on the folly and sinfulness of immoderate grief, together 
with sundry opposite remarks, well befitting his own cir- 
cumstances, and a few proverbial illustrations and observa- 
tions, such as " Misfortunes never come alone, for his poor 
dame was taken at night, and the old gander was found 
dead in the morning." Moreover, he failed not to sum up, 
as sources of rational consolation, " that it had pleased the 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 155 

Lord to spare her till the boy ran alone, and Daisey's calf 
was weaned, and all the bacon cured ; and he himself had 
become fully competent to supply her place in the manu- 
facturing of cheeses." So Andrew buried his wife and 
was comforted. 

And, from the night of her death, he took his little son to 
his own bed, and laid him in his mother's place ; and long 
and fervent were the prayers he ejaculated before he went 
to rest, kneeling beside his sleeping child ; and cautious 
and tender as a mother's kiss, was that he imprinted on its 
innocent brow before he turned himself to slumber. Early 
in the morning an elderly widow, who had been used to 
cook his victuals, and set the cottage to rights before his 
marriage, came to take up and tend the boy, and get break- 
fast for him and. his father, and she was now detained 
through the day, in the care of household concerns, and of 
the motherless little one. She was a good and tender fos- 
ter-mother, and a careful manager withal, falling readily 
into Andrew's ways and likings, a woman of few words, 
and content with little more than her victuals and drink — 
and, inoffensive and taciturn as she was, he had a feeling of 
snug satisfaction in locking her out every evening when she 
betook herself to sleep at her own cottage. Then was An- 
drew wont to turn back to his own solitary hearth, with a 
feeling of self gratulation, not evincing much taste for so- 
cial enjoyment, or any disposition again to barter his secure 
state of single-blessedness for a chance in the matrimonial 
lottery — from which, having drawn a first-rate prize, it 
would have been presumptuous to expect a second. 

What with old Jenny's help, and his own notability, (he 
had not lived so long a bachelor without having acquired 
some skill in housewifery,) he got on very comfortably ; 
and for a living object to care for, and to love, the little Jo- 
siah was to him wife, child, companion — every thing ! So 
Andrew continued faithful as a widowed turtle to the mem- 
ory of his deceased Dinah ; and the motherless boy throve 
as lustily as if he had continued to nestle under the maternal 
wing. He was, in truth, a fine sturdy little fellow, full of 
life and glee, and " quips and cranks, and mirthful smiles," 



156 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

and yet as like Andrew as " two peas." " The very moral 
of the father," said old Jenny, " only not so solemnlike." 
He had Andrew's jetty eyebrov»^s, and black lustrous eyes, 
deep set under the broad projecting brow ; but they looked 
out with roguish mirth from their shadowy cells, and the 
raven hair, that, like his father's, almost touched his straight 
eye-brows, clung clustering over them, and round his little 
fat poll, in a luxuriance of rich, close, glossy curls. His 
mouth was shaped like his father's, too ; but Andrew's could 
never, even in childhood, have relaxed into such an expres- 
sion of dimpled mirth, as the joyous laugh burst out — that 
sound of infectious gladness which rings to one's heart's 
core like a peal of merry bells. He was a fine little fellow ! 
and at five years old the joy and pride of the doting father, 
not only for his vigorous beauty, but for his quick parts and 
wonderful forwardness in learning ; for Andrew was a 
scholar, and had early taken in hand his son's education ; 
so that, at the age above mentioned, he could spell out pas- 
sages in any printed book, could say the Lord's Prayer and 
the Belief, and great part of the Ten Commandments, 
though he stuck fast at the Thirty-nine Articles, and the 
Athanasian Creed, which his father had thought it expedi- 
ent to include among his theological studies. It was the 
proudest day of Andrew Cleaves's whole life, when for the 
first time he led his little son by the hand along the aisle of 
his parish-church into his own pew, and lifted up the boy 
upon the seat beside him, where (so well had he been tutor- 
ed, and so profound was his childish awe) he stood stock- 
still, with his new red Prayer-book held open in his two 
little chubby hands, and his eyes immovably fixed, not on 
the book, but on his father's face. All eyes were fixed up- 
on the boy, for, verily, a comical little figure did the young 
Josiah exhibit that Sabbath-day. Andrew Cleaves had a 
sovereign contempt for petticoats, (though of course he had 
never hinted as much in his late spouse's hearing,) and could 
ill brook that his son and heir, a future lord of creation, 
should be ignominiously trammelled even in swaddling- 
clothes. So soon, therefore, as a change was feasible — far 
sooner than old Jenny allowed it to be so — the boy was 



f» ' .i>,. 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYAKD. 157 

emancipated from his effeminate habiliments, and made a 
man of — a little man complete, in coat, waistcoat, and 
breeches, made after the precise fashion of his father's, who 
had set the tailor to work in his own kitchen, under his own 
eye, and on a half- worn suit of his own clothes, out of which 
enough remained in excellent preservation to furnish a com- 
plete equipment for the man in miniature. So little Josi- 
ah's Sunday-going suit consisted of a long-tailed coat of 
dark-blue broad cloth, lapelled back, with two rows of large 
gilt basket-work buttons, a red plush waistcoat, (the month 
being July,) brown corduroy breeches, with knee-buckles, 
grey worsted hose, and large new square-toed shoes, with a 
pair of heavy silver buckles, once belonging to his mother, 
that, covering his little feet across, like a couple of pack- 
saddles, touched the ground as he walked on either side of 
them. Add to this a stiff broad-brimmed beaver, (padded 
within all round to fit his tiny pate,) under the shadow of 
which the baby face was scarce discoverable, and the whole 
diminutive person moved like a walking mushroom. 

Proud was the boy of his first appearance, so equipped, 
before the assembled congregation ; and very proud was 
Andrew Cleaves, who felt as if now indeed he might assume 
unto himself, before the elders of his people, the honour of 
being father to a man-child. 

From that day forth little Josiah, led in his father's hand, 
came regularly to church every Sabbath-day ; but, alas ! 
his after demeanour, during service, by no means realized 
the promise of that solemn propriety wherewith he comport- 
ed himself on his first memorable appearance ; and it soon 
required Andrew's utmost vigilance to rebuke and check his 
son's restless and mischievous propensities. Great was the 
father's horror and consternation on detecting him in the 
very act of making faces at the vicar himself, whose unfor- 
tunate obliquity of vision had excited the boy's monkey ta- 
lent of mimicry ; and at last the young rebel was suddenly 
and for ever deposed from his lofty station on the seat be- 
side his father, for having taken a sly opportunity of pin- 
ning the hind bow of an old lady's bonnet to the back of 
her pew, whereby her bald pate was cruelly exposed to the 
14 



158 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

eyes of the congregation, as she rose up, with unsuspecting 
innocence, at the Gloria Patri. 

At home, too, Andrew soon discovered that his parental 
cares were likely to multiply in full proportion to his parent- 
al pleasures. Little Josiah was quick at learning, but of so 
volatile a spirit, that, in the midst of one of his father's fi- 
nest moral declamations, or most elaborate expoundings, he 
would dart off after a butterfly, or mount astride on the old 
sheep-dog ; and at last, when sharply rebuked for his irrev- 
erent antics, look up piteously in his father's face, and yawn 
so disconsolately, that Andrew's iron jaws were fain to 
sympathize with the infectious grimace, to their owner's in- 
finite annoyance. At meal times it was wellnigh impossi- 
ble to keep his little hands from the platter while his father 
pronounced a long and comprehensive grace, with an espe- 
cial supplication for the virtues of abstinence and forbear- 
ance ; and so far from continuing to take pride in the man- 
ly dignity of his raiment, it became necessary to dock his 
waistcoat-flaps, and the long skirts of his week-day coat, the 
pockets of the former being invariably crammed with peb- 
bles, munched apples, worms, brown sugar, snails, cockchaf- 
ers, and all manner of abominations ; and on the latter it was 
not only his laudable custom to squat himself in the mud 
and mire, but, being of an imitative and inventive genius, 
and having somewhere read a history of the beavers, he 
forthwith began to practise their ingenious mode of land- 
carriage, by dragging loads of rubbish behind him on the 
aforesaid coat-tails, as he slid along in a sitting posture. 

Greatly did Andrew Cleaves marvel, that a son of his 
should evince such unseemly propensities, having perpet- 
ually before his eyes an example of sober seriousness and 
strict propriety. But, nevertheless, h^ doted on the boy 
with unabated fondness — toiled for him — schemed for him 
— waked for him — dreamt of him — lived in him — idolized 
him ! — Yes ! — Andrew Cleaves, who had been wont to hold 
forth so powerfully on the sin and folly of idol worship, 
he set up in his heart an earthly image, and unconsciously 
exalted it above his Maker. 

Andrew's cottage was situated on the extreme verge of a 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 159 

large and lonely common, which separated it from the vil- 
lage of Redburn, and it was also at a considerable distance 
from any other habitation. He had taken upon himself his 
son's early instruction, and it was consequently easy enough 
to maintain a point which he had much at heart, that of 
keeping the boy aloof from all intercourse with the village 
children, or indeed with any persons, save himself and old 
Jenny, except in his company. This system, to which he 
rigidly adhered, had a very unfavourable effect on his own 
character, repressing in it all those kindlier and more social 
feelings which had almost struggled into preponderance, 
when the hard surface was partially thawed by the new 
sense of parental tenderness, and while his son was yet a 
cradled babe, and he had nothing to apprehend for him on 
the score of evil communications. But now he guarded 
him as misers guard their gold — as he himself, alas ! hoard- 
ed the mammon of unrighteousness, (his secondary object,) 
but "solely for his darling's sake." So Andrew comprom- 
ised the matter with his conscience, and so he would have 
answered to any enquiring Christian. 

The boy, though thus debarred from all communication 
save with his father and old Jenny, was nevertheless as 
happy as any child of the same age. He had never known 
the pleasures of association with youthful playmates — he 
was full of animal spirits and invention, particularly in the 
science of mischief ; — he completely ruled old Jenny in the 
absence of his father ; and, except at lesson times and on 
Sabbaths, had acquired more ascendency over that stern fa- 
ther himself, than Andrew anyway suspected. 

The interval between the boy's fourth and seventh year 
was, perhaps, the happiest in the whole lives of father and 
son ; but that state of things could not continue. Andrew 
Cleaves had aspiring views for his young Josiah — and it 
had always been his intention to give him " the best of 
learning ;" in furtherance of which purpose he had looked 
about him, almost from the hour of the boy's birth, for 
some respectable school wherein to place him, when his own 
stock of information became incompetent to the task of 
teaching. He had at last pitched upon a grammar-school 



160 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII, 

in the county town, about five miles from his own habita- 
tion, where the sons of respectable tradesmen and farmers 
were boarded and taught upon moderate terms ; though, 
to do Andrew justice, saving considerations were not para- 
mount with him, when his son's welfare was concerned, 
and he was far more anxious to ascertain that his morals, 
as well as his learning, would be strictly attended to. On 
that head he of course received the most satisfactory assu- 
rances from the master of the " Academy for Young Gentle- 
men ;" and having likewise ascertained that the boy would 
have an ample allowance of wholesome food, it is not won- 
derful that Andrew Cleaves threw the " moderate terms" 
as the third weight into the scale of determination. 

The greater number of the boys — -those whose parents 

were dwellers in the town of C , were only day-boarders ; 

but some, whose families lived at a greater distance, went 
home on Saturdays only, to spend the Sabbath-day ; and 
it was Andrew's private solace to think that the separation 
from his child would be rendered less painful by that week- 
ly meeting. It had taken him full six months, and sundry 
journeyings to and fro, to make all his arrangements with 
the master. But at last they were completed, and nothing 
remained but the trial — the hard, hard trial — of parting 
with that creature who constituted his all of earthly happi- 
ness. Andrew was a hard man, little susceptible of tender 
weakness in his own nature, and ever prone to contemn 
and censure in others the indulgence of any feeling incom- 
patible (in his opinion) with the dignity of a man and the 
duty of a Christian. 

His God was not a God of love ; and when he rebuked 
the natural tears of the afflicted — the submissive sorrows of 
the stricken heart — it was in blind forgetfulness of him 
who wept over the grave of his friend Lazarus. He had 
honoured his parents during their lifetime, and buried them 
with all decent observance ; but with no other outward 
demonstration of woe, than a more sombre shade on his 
always severe countenance. " The desire of his eyes" 
was taken from him, and he had shown himself a pattern 
of pious resignation. And now he was to part with his 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 161 

son for a season, and who could doubt that the temporary 
sacrifice would be made with stoical firmness ? And so it 
should verily, was Andrew's purpose ; upon the strength of 
which he proceeded, with old Jenny's advice and assistance, 
to make requisite preparation for the boy's equipment. 
Nay, he was so far master of himself, as to rebuke the old 
woman's foolish fondness when she remarked, " how lone- 
some the cottage would seem when the dear child was 
gone ;" and he expressed himself the more wrathfully, 
from the consciousness of a certain unwonted rising in his 
throat, which half choked him as she went " maundering on." 

To the child himself, he had not yet breathed a syllable 
of his intentions, and yet more than tv/ice or thrice he had 
taken him on his knee, to tell him of the approaching change. 
But something always occurred to defer the execution of his 
purpose — the boy stopped his mouth with kisses — or he prat- 
tled so there was no getting in a word edgeways — or it 
would do as well in the evening, when he came home from 
his fields. But then, the young one came running to meet 
him, and had always so much to ask and tell, that the im- 
portant communication was still delayed. In the morning, 
before he rose from his pillow, he would tell it as the boy lay 
still by his side ; but while the secret was actually on his 
lips, his little bed-fellow crept into his bosom, and nestled 
there so lovingly, that his voice died away, as it were, into 
the very depths of his heart, and the v»^ords were yet un- 
spoken. At length he hit upon an opportunity, which was 
sure to present itself ere long. The next time Josiah was idle 
and refractory at his lessons — that very moment, in the 
strength of indignation, he would tell him he was to leave 
his father's roof, and be consigned to the rule of strangers. 
Alas ! that fittino; occasion was in vain laid wait for — Josiah 
truly did his best to forward it, but the father could not be 
angry — and he could not speak. 

At last, seriously angry with himself — humiliated at the 
triumph of human weakness, to which he had hitherto boast- 
ed himself superior — Andrew departed one morning to his 
labours earlier than usual, having deputed to Jenny the task, 
to which he felt himself unequal. All that morning the fa- 
14* 



162 CHURCHYAEtoS.-^-CHAP. XIIl. 

ther's thoughts were with his child. He pictured to himself 
the first burst of distress — the first grievous surprise — the 
inconsolable sorrow at the thought of parting — and he long- 
ed to return and clasp the boy to his heart, and to kiss oflT 
the tears from his dear face, and comfort him with soothing 
words and indulgent promises. 

But still as the fond impulse rose within him, he wrestled 
with it manfully, and lashed on his team, and laid his hand 
upon the plough, as if to support himself in resolute forbear- 
ance. No wonder the furrows Andrew traced that day were 
the most uneven he had ever drawn, since the hour he first 
guided his own plough on his own acres. He kept firm to 
his post, however, till the usual dinner hour, and even left 
the field with his laborers, without deviating from his ac- 
customed firm, deliberate step ; but when they had turned 
out of sight to their own homes, then Andrew speeded on 
rapidly towards his cottage, till just within sight of it he 
spied the little Josiah running forward to meet him. Then 
again he slackened his pace, for his heart shrank from the 
first burst of the boy's impetuous sorrow. 

But those apprehensions were soon exchanged for feelings 
of a more irritable nature, when he perceived that the merry 
urchin bounded towards him with more than his usual exu- 
berant glee ; and the first words he distinguished were, — 
" Father, father, I'm going to school ! — I'm going to school ! 
— I'm going to town, father ! — I'm going to school ? When 
shall I go ? Shall I go to-morrow ? Shall I take my new 
clothes, father ? And my hoop, and my lamb, and old 
Dobbin ?" 

A bitter pang it was that shot through Andrew's heart at 
that moment — a bitter revulsion of feeling was that he expe- 
rienced. He made no allowance for the volatile nature of 
childhood — its restless desire of change and love of novelty 
— its inconsideration — its blissful recklessness of the future. 
He read only in the boy's exulting rapture, that this his only, 
only child — the only creature he had ever loved — who had 
slept in his bosom, and prattled on his knee, and won from 
him such fond indulgences as he could scarce excuse to his 
own conscience — this darling of his age, now on the eve of 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 163 

a first separation, broke out into extravagant joy at the pros- 
pect, and testified no anxiety but to take with him his play- 
things, and his dumb favourites. The sudden revulsion of 
feeUng came upon Andrew like an ice-bolt, and there he 
stood motionless, looking sternly and fixedly on the poor 
child, who was soon awed and silenced by his father's un- 
wonted aspect, and stood trembling before him, fearing he 
knew not what. At last he softly whispered, sidling closely 
up, and looking earnestly and fearfully in his father's face, 
" Shall I not go to school then ? Old Jenny said I should." 
That second, quiet interrogatory restored to Andrew the 
use of speech, and the mastery over all his softer feelings. 
" Yes," he replied, taking the boy's hand, and grasping it 
firmly within his own, as he led him homeward, " yes, Josi- 
ah, you shall go to school — you have been kept too long at 
home : to-morrow is the Sabbath, but on Monday you shall 
go. On Monday, my child, you shall leave your father." 

That last sentence, and a something he perceived, but com- 
prehended not, in his father's voice and manners, painfully 
affected the boy, and he burst into tears, and, clinging to his 
father's arm, sobbed out, " But you will go with me, father ; 
and you will come and see me every day, will you not ? 
And I shall soon come home again." 

That artless burst of natural affection fell like balm on 
Andrew's irritated feelings, and he caught up his child to 
his bosom, and blessed and kissed him, and then they " rea- 
soned together :" and the father told his boy how he should 
fetch him home every Saturday with Dobbin ; and how they 
should still go hand-in-hand to church on the Sabbath ; and 
how his lamb, and the grey colt, should be taken care of in 
his absence ; and his hoop and other toys might be carried 
with him to school. 

Then the child began again his joyous prattle, with now 
and then a sob between ; and the father kissed his wet 
glowing cheek, carrying him all the way home in his arms ; 
and thus lovingly they entered the little garden, and the 
pretty cottage, and sat down side by side, to the neat home- 
ly meal old Jenny had provided. 



164 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV* 



CHAPTER XIV. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 



The Sabbath-day passed on as usual ; its wonted calm, 
unbroken even by Josiah's eager anticipation of the mor- 
row — for so early and so severely had Andrew inculcated 
the duty of a grave and solemn demeanour on the Lord's 
day, that the child had learned to imitate his father's serious 
and mortified aspect, and his joyous laugh was rarely heard 
ringing through the house during those twelve long tedious 
hours ; and, contrary to his usual vivacious habits, he was 
always anxious to go to bed very early on the Sabbath 
evening, and he had already been some hours in a sweet 
and profound sleep, when his father came to bed on that 
last night preceding the important Monday. 

If ever prayers were breathed from the heart, such were 
those of Andrew Cleaves, when, by that pale light of a 
cloudless moon, he knelt down at the solemn hour, beside 
the pillow of his sleeping child, who " looked like an angel 
as he slept," the tender moonbeams playing like a glory 
round those young innocent temples. Yes, if ever prayer 
came direct from the heart, such was that of Andrew 
Cleaves at that solemn hour ; yet never before were his 
whispered aspirations so broken, so faintly murmured, so 
devoid of all the graces of speech and metaphor. Over 
and over again his lips murmured — " Bless my child — bless 
him, oh Lord !" and then the words died away, and the 
heart only spoke, for its eloquence was unutterable ; yet he 
continued near an hour in that holy communion ; and 
when at length he rose up from his knees, and, bending 
over his child, bowed his head to imprint the accustomed 
kiss, large drops rolled down his rugged features, and fell 
on the soft glowing cheek of the little sleeper. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 165 

Andrew Cleaves laid himself down to rest that night, 
with snch thoughts as might, " if heaven had willed it," 
have matured even then to fruits of blessedness. But his 
time was not yet come. The rock was stricken, but as yet 
the waters gushed not freely out. 

Daylight brought with it other thoughts, and more 
worldly feelings ; and Andrew Cleaves rose up himself 
again, stout of heart and firm of purpose, remembering that 
he was to appear among men, and scorning to betray, be- 
fore his fellow-creatures, any symptom of that tender weak- 
ness which he felt half humiliated at having yielded to in 
the sight of his Creator. 

He roused the boy up hastily and cheerily, and hurried 
old Jenny in her breakfast preparations, and in completing 
the packing up of Josiah's box, and equipping him for his 
departure, and the new scene he was about to enter on, in 
a suit of bran new clothes, made, however, after the precise 
fashion of his first manly habiliments ; — and Andrew him- 
self was less methodical and deliberate than usual in his 
own proceedings, finding something to do, or to seek for, 
which hurried him hither and thither, with a bustling rest- 
lessness very unlike his general clock-work movements. 

He sat scarce five minutes at his breakfast, and had not 
consumed half his morning's portion of oatmeal porridge, 
when he started off to draw out the cart, and harness old 
Dobbin ; and the box was locked and brought out — and the 
boy rigged at all points, like a little hog in armour — and 
the horse and cart at the door — and all ready, though An- 
drew piofessed he had believed it later than it really was, 
by a full hour, and the sooner they were off the better — so 
cutting short, with peevish impatience, the blubbering adieu 
of poor Jenny — just as Josiah was beginning to sob out in 
concert — and saying, " Up wi' ye, my man," he jerked 
him suddenly into the cart, and mounting himself, drove 
off at a rate that caused old Jenny to exclaim, " Lord save 
us, for certain master's bewitched !" — and greatly incon- 
venienced Dobbin, whose usual paces were every whit as 
sedate and deliberate as her master's. 

It is not to be inferred, however, that he continued to urge 



166 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

on the venerable beast to those unnatural exertions through- 
out the whole five miles. Andrew was so far a humane 
man, that he was " merciful to his beast," and once out of 
sight of home, permitted her to fall into her old jog-trot, ta- 
king the opportunity, after clearing his throat with sundry 
hums and ha's, to hold forth very lengthily to his young 
companion on the new course of life he was about to enter 
on — the new duties he would have to fulfil — the zeal for 
learning — aptness, diligence, and perseverance, that would 
be expected from him — the care he was to take of his clothes, 
and his new Bible and Prayer-book, and the caution with 
which it would behove him to select intimates among his 
schoolfellows, many of whom might be wild, riotous chaps, 
given to such wicked ways as Andrew trembled to think of. 

The boy had listened to this edifying exhortation — which 
had held on through four interminable miles, (for Andrew 
was always soothed and inspired by the sound of his own 
droning preachments,) — just as he had been wont to listen 
to the Rev. Mr. Leadbetter's hydra-headed sermons — in si- 
lence indeed, but with most disconsolate yawnings and 
twitchings, and indescribable fidgetings ; but when his father 
came to the head of Schoolfellows, his attention was instantly 
excited ; and suddenly brightening up, and skipping over the 
prohibitory clauses of the discourse, he broke in on it with 
an enquiry of, whether the boys were like to be good hands 
at hoops and marbles 1 

An interruption so ill-timed and incongruous, would have 
drawn down a sharp rebuke on the heedless offender ; but 
just as it was breaking from Andrew's lips, a sudden turn of 
the road brought them to the top of the last hill, overlooking 

the town of C , which now opened at a short distance in 

full view of the travellers. 

There — the father remembered he was to leave his boy — 
so the severe words died away upon his lips — and the child 
looked, for the first time in his life, on the wonderful laby- 
rinth of houses, churches, markets, and manufactories, that 
constitute a considerable county-town ; and his amazement 
and delight broke forth with inexpressible vehemence. "Ay, 
it's all very fine, my man !" said the father, shaking his head ; 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 167 

" a fine thing to look at, yon great city ; and yeVe seen 
nothing like it afore, poor innocent lamb ; but God keep ye 
from the evil ways that are in it, and from the tents of the 
ungodly !" So groaned Andrew ; but nevertheless he drove 
on with his precious charge towards the tents of ungodliness, 
for he had worldly and ambitious views for the boy, and they 
were not to be forwarded in the desert. 

The road wound quite round the brow of the hill in a 
somewhat retrogade direction, so as to alter the otherwise 
precipitous descent into one more gradual and easy. On 
one side arose a wall of chalky cliff; on the other a steep 
slope of slippery down — so Andrew guided old Dobbin slowly 
and carefully round the promontory's brow ; and on doubling 
the point, an unexpected and unwelcome sight saluted him. 
Just beneath, on a sort of green platform half-way down the 
declivity, had stood, from times beyond the memory of man, 
an awful fixture, from which the eminence derived its de- 
signation of " Gallows-Hill." Round that fatal tree, and 
quite down the remaining descent, and ranged, ledge above 

ledge, up the chalky summit, the whole population of C 

seemed now assembled ; yet such was the stillness of the 
vast multitude, that no sound indicative of the scene they 
were approaching, had reached the ears of Andrew or his 
son, till they came in full sight of it. Andrew Cleaves in- 
stinctively tightened his rein and halted abruptly, and the 
boy jumped up and caught hold of his father's arm, but ut- 
tered not a word, as he looked down breathlessly on the con- 
densed living mass. At last he drew a long, deep inspira- 
tion, and looked round in his father's face, the seriousness of 
which had darkened into unusual severity. Rather in an- 
swer to his own momentary surprise, than in reply to the 
boy's enquiring looks, Andrew uttered, in his deepest, k>w- 
est tone, " Ay, I see how it is — 'Sizes are over, and there's 
an execution going forward. So perish the guilty from the 
land!" 

Andrew Cleaves would have been a sturdy champion for 
that faith, in the strength of which the valiant Bishop Don 
Hieronymo urged on the slaughter of the Infidels, with the 
shout of — " Smite them, for the love of God !" And under 



168 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

the Jewish dispensation, he would never have spared Agag, 
whatever he might have done by " the best of the sheep and 
oxen." So now twice over — yea, three several times, he 
fervently ejaculated — " So perish the guilty from the land !" 
concluding the third repetition with a sonorous "Amen !" 
which was softly re-echoed by the tremulous voice of the 
unconscious child, who having been accustomed at home 
and at church always to repeat the word after the clerk or 
his father, now chimed in mechanically with the pious as- 
piration. "Amen !" quoth Andrew, and whipped on Dob- 
bin, though rather perplexed at having to make his way 
through the close-wedged multitude. Andrew Cleaves, 
though a severe, was not a cruel man. Though a zealous 
advocate for the extreme rigour of the law, he took no de- 
light in witnessing the actual execution of its dread sen- 
tence ; neither did he desire that his innocent companion 
should thus prematurely behold a sight so awful. Therefore 
he pushed on as fast as possible, hoping to get clear of the 
crowd before the arrival of the Sheriff and the mournful 
cavalcade, which was slowly approaching. As they passed 
close to the foot of the gibbet, Josiah, glancing upwards at 
the fatal tree, shrunk close to his father, as if he would have 
grown into his very side ; and now their onward progress 
became more difficult — almost impossible. The fatal cart 
was close at hand, and the curious people thronged about it 
to catch a passing view of the condemned. It was in vain 
that Andrew urged on the old mare with voice and lash : 
she could not force a passage through the living wall, so he 
was fain to take patience, and draw up to the side of the 
road till the sad pageant had passed by. The crowd which 
had arrested his progress, impeded also the advance of the 
cart with its wretched burden ; and during the time of its 
tedious approach, Andrew gathered from some of the by- 
standers, that the criminal, who was that day to meet an 
ignominious and untimely fate, was a mere youth, having 
barely attained his twentieth year ; that he had been a boy 
of fair promise, till seduced by bad company, and evil ex- 
ample, into irregular ways and lawless practices ; which, 
proceeding from bad to worse, had at last involved him in 



4- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 169 



the crime for which he was about to suffer, and which 
would surely bring down to the grave with sorrow the grey 
hairs of hi^ unhappy parents, whose only child he was. 

" Maybe they'll have to blame themselves for the ill deeds 
of their offspring. Maybe they'll have fallen short in set- 
ting him a good example, and in bringing him up in the 
fear of the Lord, and the renunciation of sin and Satan," 
sententiously observed Andrew, firmly compressing his lips, 
and contracting his dark brows into their sternest and most 
awful expression. 

" You're quite wrong there, master," indignantly retorted 
a woman, who was squeezed up close to the side of the 
cart, and whose hard-favoured countenance exhibited an ex- 
pression little less saturnine than Andrew's ; and, to use the 
vulga phrase, far more " em7." — "You're quite wrong 
there, any way. Better Christians and honester folk never 
broke bread than that poor lad's parents ; ay, and better 
parents too, though maybe a thought too proud and fond of 
him, for pride will have a downfall ; and I always told 'em 
Joe wanted a tight hand over him ; but it's too late now. 
God help 'em, poor souls, I say !" 

" Amen ! mistress," quoth Andrew. " Nevertheless, pun- 
ishment is wholesome, for example's sake ; and it's right 
guilt should suffer ; and verily the parents of the lad, if they 
be, as you say, pious Christians, should rather rejoice in 
their affliction, and praise the Lord, that he is cut short in 
his wickedness." 

" I say, ' praisQ the Lord !' indeed, that their only child 
should come to the gallows ! A fine thing to praise God 
on !" growled the woman — yet more indignantly. " I won- 
der what some folks' feelings are made of? I say, 'praise 
the Lord,' indeed !" 

" Woman !" snorted Andrew ; but his expostulatory sen- 
tence was cut short by her angry vehemence, as she con- 
tinued, in a taunting key — 

" Maybe you'll like, ' for example's sake,' to see that pret- 
ty lamb by your side with the rope round his neck some 
day. Maybe you'll praise the Lord for that, master !" and 
so saying, she stretched out her long bony arm, and laid her 
15 



170 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XlV. 

hand on the shoulder of the shuddering child ; and when 
Andrew turned to rebuke her, and their eyes met, the ex- 
pression of hers struck into his heart such a sensation of 
strange uneasiness, as caused him suddenly to draw the 
child beyond her reach ; and long afterwards, for many and 
many a day, and when months and years had passed by, 
and the recollection of that scene had faded, and no partic- 
ular circumstance occurred to revive it, that woman's face, 
and that peculiar look, would come across him, and again 
strike to his heart the same feeling of indefinite horror, 
which impelled him, at the moment he actually encountered 
it, to snatch the boy from within the evil influence of her 
touch. 

But, at the time, that painful sensation was as momenta- 
ry as vivid, for all further altercation was cut short by the 
pressure of the living mass, among which a general agita- 
tion, and a low confused murmur took place, as it fell back 
on either side, to make way for the fatal cart. The woman 
left off in the midst of a volley of revilings on Andrew's 
hardheartedness, in her anxiety to press back in time to se- 
cure a snug place near the gibbet, where she might see all 
in comfort. And Andrew held his peace, and drew still 
closer to the road-side, as the cart came slowly on ; and as 
vulgar curiosity was not one of his besetting sins — (Andrew 
Cleaves's was by no means a vulgar mind, nor was his 
character a common one) — his eye followed not the broad 
eager gaze of the multitude, but looking downward, with 
serious, and not unbecoming solemnity, he raised his head 
only for an instant, and as it were involuntarily, just as the 
cart came abreast of his own vehicle, and the wretched 
criminal was so near, that in the deep stillness which had 
succeeded that prelusive murmur, his short, quick, laborious 
respiration, broken at intervals by a convulsive sob, was dis- 
tinctly audible ; and transient as was Andrew's involuntary 
glance, the object it encountered was not one soon to be 
forgotten. It was a sight, indeed, to touch a father's heart ; 
and who could have beheld it unmoved ? 

The culprit, as has been said, was a mere youth. He 
appeared scarcely to have numbered twenty summers. A 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 171 

tall slim lad he was, almost effeminate in the transparent 
delicacy of his complexion, the profusion of fair silky hair 
which waved in disorder about his blue-veined temples, and 
the sickly whiteness of his long thin hands, one of which 
hung lifelessly over the side of the cart, in which he sat 
erect and stiffened, as if under the influence of some be- 
numbing spell, (his eyes only wandering with a bewildered 
stare,) and seemingly incapable of attending to the clergy- 
man, who was seated by his side, occasionally reading to 
him a few sentences from the Book of Common Prayer, 
and mildly exhorting him to join in some pious ejaculation, 
or penitential verse. 

At such times, indeed, the wretched boy looked for an 
instant towards the Book of Prayer, and his lips moved, but 
no articulate sound proceeded from them. Those quivering 
lips were parched and deadly white, but a spot of vivid 
crimson burned on his hollow cheek, and the expression of 
his large blue eyes, distended to an unnatural roundness, 
was exceedingly ghastly. Occasionally he looked quickly 
and eagerly from side to side, and in one of those hurried 
glances his eyes met Andrew's, and at that moment his 
frame was convulsed with an universal tremor, and he faintly 
articulated the word " Father !" Right glad was Andrew 
Cleaves when the cart with its miserable burden, the sher- 
iffs with their attendants, and the whole dismal train, having 
passed onward, the people thronged after them to the place 
of execution, and he was once more at liberty to pursue his 
way, which he did with all possible expedition, urging on 
Dobbin with an energy he had never before ventured to 
exert on that steep declivity. But the sound of the agitated 
multitude, (that heavy, awful sound, like the swell of distant 
ocean,) was still audible, and Andrew speeded to get beyond 

it, and to reach C , now within the distance of a few 

furlongs. All this while not a word had passed between 
the father and son ; but just before they entered the town, 
Andrew looked round upon his child, who had remained, as 
it were, glued on to his side, both his little arms fast locked 
round one of his father's. He was very pale, and trembled 
like a leaf ; and when his father spoke to him, and he tried 



172 CHURCHYARDS.— -CHAP. XIV. 

to answer, the attempt produced only a deep choking sob, 
that burst out as if his very breath had been pent up for 
ages ; one or two hysterical catches succeeded, a broken 
word or two, the brimming eyes overflowed, and then the 
little heart was relieved and lightened — Oh ! would the ' 
burden of elder bosoms was as easily breathed out ! And 
he slackened his grasp of his father's arm, and began to 
breathe and prattle freely. 

Andrew fairly enough improved the opportunity of that 
awful sight they had just witnessed, by pointing out to his 
young companion the dreadful consequences of vice, and 
the danger of yielding to temptation, even by the most tri- 
fling deviation from moral and religious rectitude. They 

had just reached the entrance of C , so the lecture was 

necessarily concluded ; but Andrew failed not to wind up 
his exhortation against the early inroads of sin, by inveigh- 
ing, especially, against the particular guilt of waste and ex- 
travagance, charging his son to take extraordinary care of 
his new clothes, not to scuff out his shoes by unnecessary 
activity and acts of wanton mischief, nor to squander away 
his pocket-money in idle toys and sensual indulgences. The 
latter charge was particularly requisite, as Josiah took with 
him to school the capital of three sixpences in silver, and 
was to receive the stipend of two-pence every Monday 
morning. He was, moreover, enjoined to keep an exact 
account of his expenditure ; and his father presented him, 
for that purpose, with a long narrow ledger-looking account- 
book, all ruled and lined with red ink, under the heads of 
pounds, shillings, and pence. 

Andrew's last charge was abruptly put an end to, by the 
rumbling of his cart-wheels over the stones of the High- 
Street ; and in two minutes they had turned out of it into 
the Market-place, then through a long, narrow, back street, 
and at length drew up before a tall red house, with a bright 
green door, having on it a large plate of resplendent brass, 
whereon was engraved with sundry flourishes — 

"The Commercial Academy for 
Young Gentlemen, 

KEPT BY THE ReV. JeREMIAH JeRK." 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 173 

AH matters concerning the admission of Josiah had been 
settled and re-settled, over and over again, between the care- 
ful father and the Rev. Mr. Jerk ; so the former had no- 
thing more to do than to consign his precious deposit into 
the care of that respectable pedagogue, which transfer was 
the affair of a moment, for Andrew had his private reasons 
for brief leave-taking ; so setting down his son at the door 
of his new abode, (where the master took the hand of his 
little pupil with that peculiar tenderness of manner so insin- 
uating to the breaking hearts of new comers,) he laid his 
hand on the boy's head, and with an abrupt " God be with 
you, my man !" was in his seat again, and off, and round 
the corner of the street, before the tears that had been swell- 
ing up into the little fellow's eyes had burst over their lids, 
and down his pale, quivering face, in all that agony of grief 
excited by the first trial of the heart — the first pang of the 
first parting. 

However cogent were the motives which decided Andrew 
Cleaves to decline the Rev. Mr. Jerk's proffered hospitality, 
he was by no means in haste to get home that day. He had 
business to transact with sundry corn-factors and graziers, 

and various other persons in C , and altogether found 

— or made — so much to detain him there, though his con- 
cerns were wont to be more expeditiously transacted, that it 
was evening before he re-mounted his rumbling vehicle, and 
put Dobbin in motion, and quite dark before he reached the 
door of his own cottage. It was a cold evening, too — a cold, 
cheerless, bleak, March evening, and an east wind and a 
sleety rain had been driving in his face all the way home ; 
and as he approached the cottage, its bright, blazing hearth 
glowed invitingly through the low casement, and reflected a 
red cheerful light on the half-open door, and streamed for- 
ward Hke a smile of welcome along the narrow gravel walk 
to the entrance wicket. And yet Andrew was in no haste 
to re-enter his comfortable home. Some hearts may guess 
why he lingered on the cold heath — such as have felt the 
pang of returning to an abode, when all is as it was — except 
— that the light of life is extinguished — the jewel gone — the 
shrine left desolate. 
15* 



174 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XlV. 

But at last poor old Jenny came hurrying out at the 
sound of the cart-wheels, with her humble welcome, and 
wonderment at his late return, and offers of assistance in 
unharnessing Dobbin, that her master might the sooner 
come in and warm himself. Her well-meant kindness was 
rather gruffly declined, so she was fain to retreat within- 
doors, and leave " Master," as she muttered to herself in 
not the best of humours, " to please himself his own way," 
(the most difficult thing in the world, by-the-by, to some 
folks in some moods ;) and when at last he approached the 
fireside, and she ventured a cautious question as to how he 
left the dear child, she was snapped off with an injunction 
to mind her own business, and not trouble him with foolish 
questions. So, having set down his supper on the small 
table already prepared with its clean white cloth, and par- 
taken of the meal in unsocial silence, she was dismissed to 
her own hovel, with an intimation that Andrew would him- 
self put away the fragments of the repast, and had no need 
of her further services that night. 

What were Andrew Cleaves's special reasons for ridding 
himself so impatiently of old Jenny's company that evening, 
and what were his cogitations after he had locked her out, 
and himself in, and resumed his former station by the 
hearth and the little supper-table, we cannot exactly ascer- 
tain, though it is to be presumed they differed widely from 
those feelings of snug satisfaction, with which, after the old 
lady had set by him his pipe and his small glass of ale, he 
had been wont to lock her civilly out, and re-seat himself 
in his comfortable corner, with the sweet consciousness that 
his child was sleeping peacefully in the little adjoining 
chamber, and that he should himself lie down to rest on the 
same bed, when the cuckoo flung open his small door in 
the old Dutch clock, and warned him it was time to retire. 

Very different must have been his cogitations the night 
he dismissed poor Jenny so impatiently — for when the cuc- 
koo warned, he still sat on unheeding, with his arms folded, 
his eyes fixed on the cold tireless hearth, where no spark 
had ghmmered for the last half hour — the pipe unlit, and 
the small glass of ale still untasted. But when the hour 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 175 

actually struck, it aroused him from his comfortless abstrac- 
tion ; and, starting and shivering with a sensation of cold 
to which he had been till then insensible, he hastily swal- 
lowed down his temperate draught, and taking up the end 
of the candle, now flaring in its socket, and moving with 
the noiseless stealthy step acquired by long habits of care- 
fulness for the slumbers of his little bedfellow, he entered 
his now sohtary chamber, and shut himself within it — and 
what were his thoughts that night, his feelings, and his 
prayers, may be guessed by some hearts, but perhaps not 
fully conceived by any. 

It would be hard to say whether the ensuing Saturday was 
more eagerly looked forward to by father or son. Certain 
it is, that when the morning of that day arrived, Andrew 
Cleaves was in no less haste to be gone, than when he had 
harnessed old Dobbin to the cart so expeditiously on the 

preceding Monday. But when he reached C , it was 

still too early to call for his boy ; for Andrew, with all his 
impatience, would not on any account have anticipated the 
precise moment when the half-holiday commenced — so he 
trafficked away the intervening time at his different places 
of call, and drew up the cart at the door of Mr. Jerk's 
academy, just as the " young gentlemen" had risen from 
their Saturday's commons of scrap-pie and stick-jaw — cer- 
tain savoury preparations not enumerated in the catalogue 
of that scientific professor Monsieur Ude, nor perhaps re- 
commended by the late Dr. Kitchiner, but quite familiar to 
the palate of provincial schoolboys. Little Josiah, having 
just risen from the aforesaid banquet, came running to the 
door at the sound of the cart-wheels, choking with joy and 
the last huge mouthful of tenacious compound. In a mo- 
ment he was up in his father's arms, and hugging him so 
tight round the neck that Andrew was fain to cry out. 

" Well, well, my man ! but you'll not throttle your old 
dad, will ye ? Have you been a good boy, Joey ?" 

Joey answered with a second hug, and the usher, who 
stood smirking at the door, satisfactorily certified the same ; 
so the boy was sent to wash his greasy face and hands, and 
fetch his hat and Uttle bundle of Sunday clothes, and then 



176 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

his father lifted him up into the cart, and turning old Dob- 
bin, and giving him the sign of departure, a brisk cherup 
and a propelhng stamp, in a few minutes they were fairly 

out of C , and on their glad way to the cottage. What 

were the boy's acclamations of delight at the first sight of its 
curling smoke, and dark brown thatch — and how, in spite 
of all Andrew's endeavours to set him right, he persisted in 
miscalculating time and space — and how often he fidgeted 
up and down on the seat — and how he took a heap of chalk 
in a distant field for the grey colt — and a flannel petticoat 
hung out to dry, for old Jenny in propria persona — and how 
his father went on pointing out the folly and unprofitable- 
ness of such crude guesses and rash assertions — and how 
the boy went on making them thick and threefold — those 
will be at no loss to conceive who have ever accompanied a 
lively urchin to his own home, on his first return after his 
first week's schooling. 

They may also picture to themselves the actual arrival — 
little Joey actually at home again — smothering old Jenny 
with kisses — squeezing the cat to a thread-paper — scamper- 
ing down the garden to see if his beans were come up — un- 
hitching his hoop from the nail, and flinging it away to run 
and see whether the grey colt was in the home croft — scram- 
bling upon the back of his unbroken favourite, and racing 
round the field holding on by its mane, not a jot the worse — 
as a finale — for being pitched right into the privet hedge, 
from whence, half rolhng, half scrambling out into the gar- 
den, he came crawling up the gravel walk on all-fours, with 
that characteristic disregard of seriousness and propriety, 
which had so early evinced itself, in despite of his father's 
solemn admonitions and decorous example. Fortunately, on 
the present occasion, Andrew was absent unharnessing the 
mare, and there was nothing new to Jenny in the uncouth 
performance. When the first ebullition of joy had subsided, 
(or rather when the animal spirits were sobered by actual 
exhaustion,) Josiah was well content to sit on his little stool 
beside his father, close by the bright warm hearth, while 
Jenny lit the candle, and set on the kettle, and brought out 
the cups and saucers, and Josiah 's own basin, full of the red 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 177 

cow's milk, set by for him at that evening's milking, and the 
hot oat-cake, prepared for his especial regale. Then came 
the time for question and answer, and the father made mi- 
nute enquiry into all school particulars, and his brow con- 
tracted a lil.ile when Joey confessed that his three sixpences 
were gone ; yea, melted away, expended to the last fraction ; 
yet how, he could by no means explain even to his own satis- 
faction, though he counted over and over again, upon his little 
fat fingers, sundry purchases of pies, crabs, gingerbread, mar- 
bles, and penny-worths of brown sugar — the enumeration 
whereof by no means tended to unknit the puckers in his fa- 
ther's brow, who for that time, however, contented himself 
with a sliort lecture on prodigal expenditure. But Joey's bo- 
som laboured with matter more important, and his little heart 
swelled indignantly, as, with a quivering lip, and broken 
voice, he began to recount a long list of the insults and 
mortifications to which he had been subjected. He had 
been the butt of the whole school, twirled about like a te- 
totum, while one pretended to admire the fashion of his 
clothes, and another asked if they were made by Adam's 
tailor, and a third, if his hat had belonged to his great-grand- 
father ; and with that, clapping it on the crown, till his 
little face was buried therein, and the broad brim rested on 
his shoulders, they called him little Amminadab, and ban- 
dying him about thus blindfold from one to the other, bade 
him complain to his dad, old " Praise-God Barebones ;" and 
then the poor little boy revealed to the indignant eyes of 
his father and Jenny, an awful fracture, which, in the pro- 
gress of these mischievous sports, had nearly dissevered one 
of his long coat-flaps, though the maid of the house had 
hastily tacked up the rent when his father called for him. 
Darker and darker Andrew's countenance had waxed, as he 
listened to the detail of these atrocities. Fearful was the 
contraction of his brow, the dilatation of his nostril, and 
the compression of his thin straight lips, when Joey, with 
an apprehensive side-glance and a suppressed tone of hor- 
ror, pronounced the opprobious cognomen which had been 
so irreverently applied to his own sacred person ; and by the 
time all was unfolded, he had wellnigh made up his mind 



178 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

that his son should return no more to the companionship of 
such daring reprobates. But Andrew Cleaves was seldom 
guilty of hasty decision ; and when his displeasure had time 
to cool, and he found reason to be satisfied on the whole 
with Joey's further report of school progress, he thought it 
expedient to gulp down the unpalatable part of the narration, 
and to re-conduct his son to the Rev. Mr. Jerk's academy 
at the expiration of the Sabbath holiday. 

That Sabbath had passed, like all former ones at the cot- 
tage, undistinguished by any additional gleam of cheerful- 
ness or innocent recreation ; and by the time it was half 
over, Joey began to think of the morrow and his return to 
school, with less repugnance than on the preceding evening. 
When Monday came, indeed, home was home again; and 
when the cart was ready, Joey ascended it rather dejected- 
ly, consoling himself, however, with the thought, that Sa- 
turday would come round again in five days. Joey's cal- 
culations were correct for once : — Saturday came in five 
days, and he was fetched home again, and again returned 
rapturously to all its delights ; and this time he had no 
grievance to relate ; no, not though his broad-brimmed bea- 
ver had been clipped to a porringer, and his whole raiment 
exhibited such woeful dilapidation, as to set at nought all 
Jenny's repairing ingenuity ; for both coat-flaps were gone 
— annihilated — irremediably abstracted — having been (as 
strongly indicated by certain suspicious appearances) actual- 
ly singed off from the dishonoured garment. Still, in spite 
of Jenny's dismay, and his father's indignation, Joey persist- 
ed that all was well ; and that he was now " very good 
friends with all his school-fellows ; that they were only very 
funny fellows ; and if they had burned off his coat-tails, a 
jacket was much more comfortable and convenient, espe- 
cially for playing leapfrog." 

In short, so perversely resigned was Master Joey to the 
docking which had been inflicted on his " good grey frieze," 
that it might have been shrewdly inferred he had had a 
hand in the operation. Happily for him, no such suspicion 
insinuated itself in his father's mind, who was, however, 
highly scandalized at the whole proceeding, and carried in- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 1T9 

to effect his determination of laying it before the Rev. Mr. 
Jerk, when Josiah returned to school. A conference with 
that gentleman, had, however, the effect not only of pre- 
vailing on Andrew to pass over in silence the illegal cur- 
tailment of his son's week-day garb, but to permit the whole 
suit, as well as that set apart for Sundays, to be so far mod- 
ernized as no longer to subject the boy to the practical jokes 
of his mischievous companions. 

Happy had it been for Andrew Cleaves if his parental 
disquietude had been excited by no causes more serious than 
the aforementioned. But, alas ! innumerable vexations 
sprang up to embitter that weekly reunion with his child, at 
first so delightful to both parties. Every succeeding Sat- 
urday diminished Joey's eagerness to return to his home, 
his former pleasures, and his dumb favourites. Every suc- 
ceeding Sunday beneath the paternal roof, hung heavier 
upon him than the former ; and as his impatience increased, 
his weariness became more apparent, and the lessons of 
manly independence he had begun to learn among his play- 
fellows, manifested their fruits in such acts of contumacy, 
as called down stern rebuke, and sometimes severe chastise- 
ment, from the hitherto indulgent father — though Joey still 
stood too much in awe of the latter to venture on very open 
rebellion. So he became sullen, and silent, and incommu- 
nicative ; and the unfortunate result of the father's undue 
severity, was to impress on the mind of the hitherto thought- 
less and frank-tempered boy, the expediency of keeping to 
himself those idle frolics and venial trespasses, which, on his 
first return from school, had been boasted of, and confessed 
with an innocent confidence it should have been Andrew's 
care to confirm and encourage. 

But Andrew, with all his fancied wisdom, was profoundly 
ignorant of the milder arts of training ; and it was really 
on Scripture principles, erroneously applied, that, as the boy 
grew older, he thought it his duty to treat him with increased 
severity, and to rebuke, with uncompromising sternness, 
those venial lapses which, when candidly confessed, should 
have been commented on with lenient gentleness. Very 
soon Josiah learned to anticipate the Sabbath holiday as a 



180 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

weekly penance ; and ample amsnds did he make himself 
for its dulness and restraint, when he found himself once 
more among his merry mates in the school playground ; and 
very soon Joey was noted for the most daring spirit of the 
whole riotous assemblage — " Up to every thing" — the leader 
of all conspiracies — the foremost in all mischief — the most 
enterprizing in all dangers — and, what was more remarka- 
ble, the readiest and most ingenious at equivocations, inven- 
tions, and even unblushing falsehood, in cases of suspicion 
or detection. But as he became more knowing in all evil 
experience, his home deportment gradually manifested such 
an alteration as rejoiced the heart, and at length excited the 
highest hopes, of the credulous parent, whose boasted pene- 
tration failed him in detecting even the earliest artifices of 
infant cunning. 

Joey's natural shrewdness soon found out the vulnerable 
points of his father's character ; and that by affecting to 
copy his serious carriage and sententious speech, and now 
and then bringing home a new Psalm tune, or quoting a 
Scripture text, or relating, with well-feigned abhorrence, 
some anecdote of a reprobate schoolfellow, or pleading his 
want of some useful book, the old man was even prevailed 
on to undraw the strings of his canvass bag ; and the young 
hypocrite's glee at obtaining substantial proofs of his inge- 
nuity, Vv^as enhanced by his public triumph when he re- 
hearsed, in the circle of his thoughtless schoolmates, the 
" capital acting" with which he had " come over the old 
gentleman." 

In short, Master Joey's proficiency in these thriving arts 
was such as would have done credit to an older head, and 
the pupil of a more fashionable establishment ; and as his 
attainments in the ostensible branches of his education real- 
ly kept pace with his supernumerary accomplishments, all 
went on seemingly as well as heart could wish ; and An- 
drew's ambitious views for his son's future advancement 
took firm root in the groundwork of these fair appearances. 

Andrew Cleaves was not a man to lay down plans with 
reservations — to make provident allowance for unseen cir- 
cumstances — or to leave much to Providence. Neither did 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 181 

he ever decide in haste ; but having once come to a deter- 
mination, it was seldom qualified with the mental proviso — 
" If it please God." 

So well considered, so fully matured, and so irrevocably 
fixed, were his parental plans. 

Though still abiding in his father's humble cottage, and 
(comparatively with many of his neighbours) farming in a 
small way, Andrew Cleaves had contrived to scrape together 
a sum of money, on which many a more dashing spirit 
would have set up a one-horse chay, taken out a shooting 
license, and drunk his bottle of port daily. But our farm- 
ers ambition aimed at more remote objects. His savings 

were snugly deposited in a banking-house at C , where, 

however, they by no means lay in unprofitable security ; 
and on certain considerations arranged among the parties 
concerned, certain engagements had been entered into, that 
at a competent age, the young Josiah should be received as 
a clerk in the establishment ; and from that office be further 
advanced, as after circumstances should warrant. Andrew 
uttered not a word of these projects to any human being, 
but he brooded over them in his own heart, till the grand 
object seemed so secure of attainment — so built up by pru- 
dence, and foresight, and calculation, as to bid defiance to 
all adverse circumstances of time, and change, and even of 
death itself. Poor man ! And yet the uncertainty of life, 
and the vanity of worldly things, and the snares of riches 
and honours, were ever in his talk, and in his mortified se- 
riousness of aspect. 



16 



182 CHURCHYARDS.— (3HAP, XV* 



CHAPTER XV. 

Matters went on smoothly on the whole, till Joey had 
been full two years at school, and his third summer holidays 
were approaching. 

They were no longer anticipated with the same impatient 
longing which had drawn his heart towards home in his 
earlier school-days ; but still there were home pleasures, 
and home indulgences, not attainable at school, and fore- 
most of those ranked the privilege of being master of his 
own time, and of the grey colt, now become a well-disci- 
plined, yet spirited steed, and destined to succeed to the 
functions of blind Dobbin, whose faithful career was fast 
drawing to a close. 

In the mean time, Joey was permitted to call young 
Greybeard his horse, and was indulged in the pride and 
happiness of driving it himself the first time its services 
were put in requisition to fetch him home for the Christmas 
holidays. But when the summer vacation arrived, Joey's 
return was ordained to be in far other and less triumphant 
order. It so chanced, that on the very day of breaking up, 

a great annual fair was held at C , which was looked 

forward to as a great festival by the boys whose parents 
and friends were resident there. These youngsters had 
vaunted its delights to Joey, and one e'special friend and 
crony had invited his schoolfellow to go with him to his 
own house, and stay the two days of the fair. Now, it un* 
luckily fell out that these identical two days occurred at a 
season most important to Andrew — just as his hay-harvest 
was getting in, and there was reason to expect the breaking 
up of a long spell of dry weather. So when Joey returned 
to school on the Monday, he was enjoined to tell his master, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 183 

(with whom Andrew had no time for parlance,) that it 
would not be convenient for his father to fetch him home 
the ensuing Thursday, or indeed (on the account before 
mentioned) till the Saturday evening. 

Andrew, engrossed by his rural concerns, had not thought 
of the fair, of which Joey took particular care not to re- 
mind him, as he well knew, that were he to give the least 
hint of his schoolfellow's invitation, and his own vehement 
longing to accept it, his father would fetch him away at 
the risk of sacrificing his whole hay crop, rather than leave 
him exposed to the danger of mixing in such a scene of 
abomination. 

Master Joey, whose genius was of a very inventive na- 
ture, soon arranged in his own mind a neat little scheme, 
which would enable him to partake the prohibited delights, 
unsuspected by his father or the Rev. Mr. Jerk ; so, trim- 
ming up to his own purpose his father's message to that 
gentleman, he ingeniously substituted for the request that 
he might be allowed to stay at school till Saturday, an in- 
timation that he had obtained parental permission to accept 
his schoolfellow's invitation for the fair days, and that a 
neighbour's cart would take him home on Friday evening 
from the house of his friend's parents. Joey had his own 
plans for getting home too when the ftm was over, and of 
managing matters so dexterously, that the truth should 
never transpire either to his father or master. The latter 
was easily imposed on by the boy's specious story ; and 
when Thursday arrived, Joey, taking with him his little 
bundle of Sunday clothes, and his whole hoard of pence 
and sixpences, left school in high spirits with a party of his 
playmates. 

Andrew Cleaves, meantime, got in his crops prosperously, 
and, exhausted as he was by a hard day's labour, set out 
on Saturday evening to fetch home the expecting boy. 
Poor Greybeard was tired also, for he too had worked hard 
all day, but he was a spirited willing creature, and went off 
freely, as if he knew his errand, and rejoiced at the thought 
of bringing home his young master. So the farmer and 
his vehicle arrived in good time at the door of the acad€-- 



184 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XV. 

my ; but Andrew looked towards it in vain, and at the up- 
per and lower windows, for the happy little face that had 
been wont to look out for him on such occasions. 

The servant girl who opened the door looked surprised 
when Andrew enquired for his son ; and still greater aston- 
ishment appeared in Mr. Jerk's countenance when he step- 
ped forward and heard the reiterated enquiry. A brief and 
mutual explanation ensued — a grievous one to the agitated 
father, whose feelings may be well imagined — irritated as 
well as anxious feelings — for, on hearing the master's story, 
little doubt remained in his mind but that the truant was still 
harboured at the house of his favourite schoolfellow. But 
the intelligence promptly obtained there, was of a nature to 
create the most serious alarm. The parents of Josiah's friend 
informed Andrew that his boy had accompanied their son 
home when the school broke up on Thursday morning — they 
having willingly granted the request of the latter, that his 
playfellow might be allowed to stay with him till an oppor- 
tunity occurred (of which he was in expectation) of his re- 
turning to his father's the next evening ; that after dinner 
the two boys had sallied out into the fair together, from which 
their son returned about dark without his companion, with 
the account that they had been separated the latter part of 
the day ; but that just as he began to tire of looking about 
for his school-fellow, Josiah had touched him hastily on the 
shoulder, saying, a neighbour of his father's who guessed he 
was playing truant, insisted on taking him home in his own 
cart, and that he must go that moment. This was all the 
boy had to tell-^-and that Josiah vanished in the crowd so 
suddenly, he could not see who was with him. 

Vain were all possible enquiries in all directions. The 
distracted father could only learn further, that his child had 
been seen by many persons standing with his friend at many 
booths and stalls, and at last, quite alone in a show-booth 
belonging to a set of tight-rope and wire dancers, and of 
equestrian performers ; with some of these he seemed to have 
made acquaintance, and among them he was last observed. 

That troop had quitted C^ the same night, and having 

fine horses and a light caravan, must have travelled expedi<«. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 185 

tiously, and were probably already at a considerable dis- 
tance ; nor could the route they had taken be easily ascer- 
tained after they had passed through the turnpike, which had 
been about ten o'clock at night. Now it was that Andrew 
Cleaves, in the agony of his distress, would have given half 
his worldly substance to have obtained tidings — but the least 
favourable tidings, of his lost child ; for dreadful thoughts 
and fearful imaginings suggested themselves, aggravating 
the horrors of uncertainty. There was no positive reason for 

belief that the boy had left C with the itinerant troop. 

A rapid river ran by the town — there was a deep canal also 
— and then the wharf, crowded with barges — between which 
But Andrew was not one to brood over imaginary 
horrors in hopeless inaction, and the opinion of others en- 
couraged him to hope that his son had only been lured away 
by the equestrian mountebanks. With the earliest dawn, 
therefore, mounted on the young powerful grey, he was 
away from C ■, and (according to the clew at last obtain- 
ed) in the track of the itinerants. But they were far in 
advance, and, soon after passing through the turnpike, had 
struck into cross country roads and by-ways, so that the 
pursuit was necessarily tedious and difficult, and Andrew 
was unused to travelling, having never before adventured 
twenty miles beyond his native place. No wonder that 
he was sorely jaded in body and mind, when he put up for 

the night at a small town about thirty miles from C , 

through which he ascertained, however, that the caravan, 
with its escort, had passed early in the morning of the pre- 
ceding day — that the troop, while stopping to bait, had 
talked of Carlisle as their next place of exhibition ; and had, 
in fact, struck into the great north road when they proceed- 
ed on their way. Andrew could gain no intelligence whe- 
ther a boy, such as he described, accompanied the party. It 
having been very early morning when they baited their 

horses at , the females of the band and children (if 

there were any) were still asleep within the closed caravan. 
So Andrew proceeded with a heavy heart, but a spirit of 
determined perseverance — and his pursuit (now that he was 
fairly on the track of its object) was comparatively easy, 
16* 



i 
186 CHURCHYAIIDS. CHAP. XT, 

About mid-day, in mercy to his beast, as well as to re- 
cruit his own strength, he halted at a hedge alehouse, when, 
having unsaddled Greybeard and seen that he was taken 
care of, he entered the kitchen and called for refreshment. 
There were many persons drinking and talking in the place, 
and Andrew failed not to make his customary enquiries, 
which awakened an immediate clamour of tongues — every 
one being ready with some information relating to the troop 
Andrew was in pursuit of. Such was the confusion of 
voices, however, that he was kept for a moment in painful 
suspense, when a decent-looking woman, (apparently a tra- 
veller,) who was taking her quiet meal in one corner of the 
kitchen, came hastily forward, and laying her hand on An- 
drew's a.rm, and looking earnestly in his face, exclaimed — 
*' After what are ye asking, master 1 Is it for a stray Iamb 
ye're seeking — and hav'n't I seen your face before ?" — An- 
drew shook like a leaf. The man of stern temper and iron 
nerves shook like an aspen-leaf, while the woman looked, 
and spake thus earnestly :■ — " Have ye — have ye found 
him ? — have ye found my boy ?" was all he could stammer 
out. " You are a stranger to me ; but God bless you, if 
you can give me back my boy !" 

" I am not a stranger to you, Andrew Cleaves ; and I 
can give you back your boy ; and the Lord bless him for 
your sake, for you saved me and mine, and took us in and 
gave us meat and drink when we were ready to perish. 
Come your ways with me, Andrew C]eaves~but, soft and 
quiet — for the laddie's in a precious sleep. He has come to 
hurt, but the Merciful watched over him." 

So she led him softly and silently through a little back 
kitchen, and up a steep dark stair, into a small upper cham- 
ber, before the casement of which a checked apron was 
pinned up, to exclude the full glow of light from the uncur- 
tained bed. Softly and silently, with finger on lip, she 
drew him on to the side of that humble bed, and there, in- 
deed, fast locked in sleep, in sweet untroubled sleep, lay the 
little thoughtless one, whose disappearance had inflicted 
such cruel anxiety and distress. 

The boy was sleeping sweetly, but his cheeks and lips 



ANDREW CLE AVE S^. 187 

were almost colourless ; a thin linen bandage was bound 
round his head ; and over one temple a soft, silky curl, that 
had escaped from the fillet, was dyed and stuck together 
with clotted blood. Andrew shuddered at the sight ; but 
the woman repeated her whispered assurance, that there 
was no serious injury. Then the father kneeled softly down 
beside his recovered darling, his head bent low over the lit- 
tle tremulous hand that lay upon the patchwork-counter- 
pane. Almost involuntarily his lips approached it ; but re- 
frained himself by a strong effort, and throwing back his 
head, lifted his eyes to Heaven in an ecstasy of silent grat- 
itude ; and, one after another, large tears rolled down over 
the rough, hard-featured face, every muscle of which qui- 
vered with powerful emotion. Yes, for the first time in his 
life, Andrew Cleaves poured out his whole heart in gratitude 
to his Creator in the presence of a fellow-creature ; and 
when he arose from his knees, so far was he from shrinking 
abased and humiliated from the eyes that were upon him, 
that, turning to the woman, and strongly grasping her 
hands in his own, he said, softly and solemnly — "Now I see 
of a truth that a man may cast his bread upon the waters, 
and find it again after many days. I gave thee and thine 
orphan babe a little food and a night's shelter, and thou re- 
storest to me my child. While Andrew Cleaves has a mor- 
sel of bread, thou shalt share it with him." And he was 
as good as his word ; and from that hour, whatever were in 
other respects his still inveterate habits of thrift and parsi- 
mony, Andrew Cleaves was never known to " turn away 
his face from any poor man." 

By degrees all particulars relating to Joey's disappear- 
ance and his providential recovery, were circumstantially 
unravelled. The little varlet had been accidentally separa- 
ted from his schoolfellow, and while gaping about the fair 
in search of him, had straggled towards the large show- 
booth, where feats of rope-dancing and horsemanship were 
exhibited. Long he stood absorbed in wondering admira- 
tion of the merry-andrew's antic gestures, and the spangled 
draperies and nodding plumes of the beautiful lady who 
condescended to twirl the tambourine, and foot it aloft,, 



188 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XV. 

" with nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles," for the re- 
creation of the gaping multitude. Others of the troop came 
in and out on the airy stage, inviting the " ladies and gen- 
tlemen" below, to walk in, with such bland and cordial 
hospitality, that Joey thought it quite irresistible, and was 
just stepping under the canvass when a strong arm arrested 
him, and a splendid gentleman, in scarlet and gold, de- 
manded the price of entrance. That was not at Joey's 
command, for all his copper hoard was already expended ; 
so he was shrinking back, abashed and mortified, when one 
or two idlers of the band, probably seeing something promis- 
ing about him, and that he was a pretty, sprightly, well- 
limbed lad, whose appearance might do credit to their hon- 
ourable profession, entered into a parley with him, and soon 
made out that he was playing truant at that very moment, 
and apparently blessed with such an adventurous genius, as, 
with a little encouragement, might induce him to join the 
company, and succeed to the functions of a sharp, limber 
urchin, of whom inexorable death had lately deprived them. 
So Joey was let in gratis ; and there he was soon translated 
into the seventh heaven of wonder and delight at the super- 
human performances of his new acquaintances. He had, 
as it were, an innate passion for horses, and the equestrian 
feats threw him into fits of ecstacy. Then all the gentle- 
men and ladies were so good-natured and so funny ! and 
one gave him a penny-pie, and another a drop of something 
strong and good ; and then the manager himself — a very 
grand personage — told him, if he liked, he should wear a 
blue and silver jacket, and ride that beautiful pie-bald, with 
his tail tied up with flame-coloured ribands. That clinched 
the bargain ; and in a perfect bewilderment of emulation 
and ambition — wonder and gratitude — gin and flattery — 
poor Joey suffered himself to be enrolled in " The Royal 
Equestrian Troop of Signer Angelo Galopo, di Canterini." 
Forthwith was he equipped in the azure vestments of the 
deceased Bobby, and indulged with five minutes sitting on 
the back of the beautiful piebald ; after which, on the close of 
the day's performance, he made one of the jovial and uncer- 
emonious party round a plentiful board, where he played his 



m 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 189 

part with such right good will, and was so liberally helped 
to certain cordial potations, that long before the end of the 
banquet, his head dropped on the shoulder of his fair neigh- 
bour, the lovely Columbine, and in a moment he was fast 
locked in such profound slumber, that he stirred not hand or 
foot, till so late the next morning, that the caravan (in a 
snug berth, whereof he had been securely deposited,) had 
long passed the small town where Andrew had halted on his 
first day's chase. 

Joey's awakening sensations were nearly as astonishing 
as those of Abon Hassan, when he unclosed his eyes in 
his own mean mansion, after his waking vision of exal- 
tation to the throne of the Cahph. Poor Joey, who had 
fallen asleep in the intoxication of supreme enjoyment and 
gratified vanity, among knights and ladies glittering with 
gold and spangles, himself radiant in all the glories of the 
blue and silver, and the fancied master of the prancing pie- 
bald — found himself, on awakening, stowed away in a cor- 
ner of the dark, suffocating, jolting caravan, of course di- 
vested of his finery, huddled up on a bag of straw, and co- 
vered with a filthy horse-rug. The whole ambulating dor- 
mitory was heaped with similar bedding, from which peeped 
out heads and arms and dirty faces, which Josiah was some 
time in assigning to the blooming heroines of the preceding 
evening. At last, however, he satisfied himself of the iden- 
tity of the lovely Columbine ; as she lay within reach, and 
had taken him under her especial protection, he made bold 
to pluck her rather unceremoniously by the outstretched 
arm, which salutation had the desired effect of rousing the 
fair one from her innocent slumbers, but only long enough 
to obtain, for Joey, a sound box of the ear, and a drowsily 
muttered command to " lie still, for a little troublesome 
rascal." So there he lay, half frightened, and half repen- 
tant, and quite disgusted with his close and unsavoury pri- 
son, from whence his thoughts wandered away to the plea- 
sant cottage on the thymy common — his clean, sweet little 
chamber, where honeysuckle looked in at the window — his 
breakfast of new milk and sweet brown bread — his own lit> 



190 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XV. 

tie garden and his bee-hives — and Greybeard, that paragon 
of earthborn steeds. 

But then came in review, the rival glories of the piebald, 
and Joey's remorseful feelings became less troublesome, and 
he longed ardently for the hour of emancipation. It came 
at last : a brief and unceremonious toilet was despatched by 
the female group ; and great was Joey's indignation, when 
in lieu of the silver and azure, or his own good raiment, he 
was compelled to dress himself in the every-day suit of his 
deceased predecessor — a most villanous compound of greasy 
tatters, which, had he dared, he would have spurned from 
him with contemptuous loathing ; but a very short experi- 
ence, and the convincing language of a few hearty cuffs, 
accompanied with no tender expletives, had satisfied him of 
the danger of rebellion, and he was fain to gulp down his 
rising choler, and the scraps of last night's meal, which were 
chucked over to him as his portion of the slovenly break- 
fast. 

In the mean time, the door and little square window of 
the caravan had been thrown open, and at last the machine 
came to a full stop on the high-road, by a hedge side, and 
the ladder was hooked to the high doorway, and the mana- 
ger, who, with his spouse, had occupied a back compart- 
ment of the van, descended to review his cavalry, while the 
equestrians snatched a hasty meal dispensed to them by 
their associated Hebes. 

There was the piebald shining in the morning sun, in all 
the perfection of piebald beauty — pawing and sidling, and 
curving inward his graceful neck, and small elegant head, 
as if impatient of the rein by which he was led at the side 
of a large Flemish-looking mare. At sight of his appointed 
palfrey, Joey was about to scramble down the ladder after 
Signer Angelo, when the latter most uncourteously repelled 
him, with such a push as sent him sprawling backwards on 
the floor of the caravan, and more than revived his late in- 
cipient feelings of disgust and repentance. But now the 
whole party, females and all, held parley of no very amica- 
ble nature about the door of their migratory council cham- 
ber. The success of the lq,te performance at C ha(i 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 191 

by no means been such as to sweeten the manager's temper, 
or to harmoiiize the " many minds" he had to deal with ; 
and loud, and surly, and taunting accusations and recrimi- 
nations were bandied about, the most acrimonious of which, 
Joey soon gathered, related to himself, and to some dispute 
respecting him, which had occurred the preceding night, 
after they had deposited him in his luxurious resting-place. 
It appeared that some of the party had even then begun to 
think with apprehension of the danger to which they ex- 
posed themselves by the abduction of a boy, whose father 
had ample means to pursue and punish them, should he dis- 
cover that his son had left C in their company. These 

prudent suggestions were made light of by others of the 
troop : words had run high even then, and insides and out- 
sides had arranged themselves for the night in no very pla- 
cable moods. During the many silent hours of darkness 
they had jogged and jolted in company ; almost every one 
however, in his secret mind, came over to the side of the 
doubters ; and when at last they halted and called council, 
each accused the other of having caused the present dilem- 
ma. From words they proceeded to rough arguments, 
and at length to something very near a general battle, 
in which their fair companions, descending from " their 
high estate," took part so heartily, that Joey, find- 
ing himself quite unobserved, seized the opportunity to 
scramble down after them ; but in his haste to reach terra 
Jirma he missed his footing, and fell headlong among the 
horses, already fretted and fidgety at the disorder of their 
riders, so that Joey's sudden precipitation set them rearing 
and pawing furiously, and he — the luckless truant ? — re- 
ceived such a kick on the head, from the hard hoof of the 
ungrateful piebald, as not only completely stunned him, 
but left him such a ghastly and bloody spectacle, as stilled 
in a moment the uproar of the conflicting parties, and made 
them unanimous in their apprehensions of the serious con- 
sequences in which they might all b€ involved, should the 
accident prove fatal, of which there was every appearance. 
The child had ceased to breathe — not the faintest pulsation 
was perceptible. The panic became general, and the deci- 



192 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XV. 

sion immediate, to consider their own safety, by moving on 
as fast as possible, leaving the unhappy boy (who was pro- 
nounced quite dead) on the grass bank by the road side. 

In two minutes the troop was in motion — in ten more, 
quite out of sight — and there lay poor Joey to all appear- 
ance a corpse, and soon to have become one in reality, but 
for the providential intervention of that poor woman by 
whom Andrew Cleaves was conducted to the bedside of his 
recovered child. That woman (as she briefly explained to 
Andrew on their stealthy progress towards the little cham- 
ber) was, indeed, the poor soldier's widow, who, with her or- 
phan babe, had owed to his compassion, in her utmost need, 
the seasonable mercy of a night's lodging and a wholesome 
meal ; and she had never forgotten the name of her bene- 
factor, nor thought of him without a grateful prayer. She 
had travelled far on to her dead husband's birth-place in the 
Scotch Highlands, to claim, for his orphan and herself, the 
protection and assistance of his kindred. Her claims had 
not been disallowed, and among them she had dwelt con- 
tentedly till her child died. Then she began to feel herself a 
stranger among strangers, and her heart yearned towards her 
own country and kinsfolk ; and she wrote a letter home to her 
own place, Manchester, the answer to which told her, that 
her friends, who were too poor to help her when she was 
left a widow, were now bettered in circumstances, and 
would give her a home and welcome ; and that, now she 
had no living hindrance, she might obtain a comfortable 
subsistence by resuming her early labours at the loom. So 
she set out for her native place, a leisurely foot traveller, 
for she was no longer unprovided with means to secure a 
decent resting place and a wholesome meal ; and she it 
was, who, having so far proceeded on her way, had dis- 
covered the young runaway lying by the way-side in the 
condition before described. Her feelings (the feelings of a 
childless mother !) needed no incentive to place her in a 
moment beside the forlorn deserted child, whose head she 
tenderly lifted on her bosom, and parting off the thickly- 
clotted hair, bound her own handkerchief about his bleed- 
ing temples. There was water within reach, with which 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 198 

she laved his face and hands, and had soon the joy of per- 
ceiving a tremulous motion of the lips and eyelids — and at 
last the boy breathed audibly, and his large black eyes un- 
closed, and he uttered a few words of wonder and distress, 
among which — " Oh, father ! father !" were most intelli- 
gible ; and to the woman's gentle inquiry of " who was 
his father ? and did he live far off?" he answered faintly, 
that he was the son of Andrew Cleaves who lived at Red- 
burn. 

A second fit of insensibility succeeded those few words, 
but they were sufficient for the widow. Providence had 
sent her to save (she trusted) the child of her benefactor, 
and all her homely but well directed energies were called 
into action. Partly carrying him in her own arms, and 
partly by casual assistance, she succeeded in conveying him 
to the nearest dwelling, that small way-side inn. There he 
was put comfortably to bed, and medical aid obtained 
promptly — the longer delay of which must have proved fatal. 
And then a message was sent off to Farmer Cleaves, (a man 
and horse, for that poor woman was a creature of noble 
spirit, and impatient to relieve the father's misery,) and then 
the widow quietly took her station by the pillow of the lit- 
tle sufferer. His head had undergone a second dressing, 
and the surgeon had pronounced, that all would go well 
with him, if he were kept for a time in perfect quiet. It 
need not be told how rigidly that injunction was attended to, 
nor how carefully, when he was in a state to be removed, 
the father conveyed back his truant chUd to the shelter of 
his own peaceful cottage — nor how anxiously he was nursed 
up there to decided convalescence — nor how solemnly, yet 
tenderly, when the boy was so far recovered, his father set be- 
fore him the magnitude of his offence, and the fatal conse- 
quences which had so nearly resulted from it. Joey wept 
sore, and looked down with becoming humility, and prom- 
ised, over and over again, and really with a sincere inten- 
tion, never, never again to give his father cause for uneasi- 
ness or displeasure. 

Time travelled on — schooldays and holidays revolved in 
regular succession — and Joey comported himself just well 
17 



104 CHURCHYARDS. — 'CHAP. XV. 

enough to gain the character of a very good scholar in 
school, and a very idle dog out of it, except at home and in 
his father's sight, when he comported himself with such a 
show of sanctity and correctness, as was quite edifying to 
behold, and too easily lulled to rest the awakened caution of 
the still credulous old man. 



ANDREW CLEAVES* 195 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Andrew had continued his son at the academy to an un- 
usually advanced period of youth, from the difficulty of 
knowing how to dispose of and employ him profitably, du- 
ring the interregnum between school and the earliest time 
of admission into the counting-house, where, at the proper 
age, he was to be articled. At last, however, in considera- 
tion of his really forward and excellent abilities, the gentle- 
men of the firm consented to receive him ; and now the 
time arrived when the human bark was to be launched from 
its supporting cradle into the tumultuous stream of active 
life. Insomuch as it advanced him, in his own estimation, 
to the honour and dignity of confirmed manhood, Josiah 
was elated at the change ; but had he been left to follow 
the lead of his own inclinations, to a surety they would not 
have hoisted him up with a pen behind his ear, before a 
dingy desk in a dark gloomy counting-house, there to pore 
away the precious hours he could have disposed of so much 
more agreeably. Had Joey been allowed to choose his 
own lot in life, to a certainty he would have enrolled him- 
self a bold dragoon, a dashing lancer, a trooper of some de- 
nomination — any thing that would have clothed him in a 
showy uniform, and given him the command of a horse ; 
but all military professions were so abhorrent to Andrew 
Cleaves, that he would as lieve placed his son in the Devil's 
Own, as in "The King's Own ;" and the boy was too well 
aware of his father's inveterate prejudices, even to hint at 
his own longings ; still less did he hazard the more debasing 
avowal, that he would have preferred the situation of a 
dashing groom to a station at the desk ; and that to be a 
jockey, a real hnoimng Newmarket jockey ! (he had heard 
a vast deal about Newmarket,) would have been the climax 
of his ambition. Happy disposition, to qualify him for the 



196 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVI. 

staid clerk of a commercial establishment ! But knowing 
the decree was irreversible, he submitted to it with a tolera- 
bly good grace, consoling himself with the reflection, that 
many young men so situated were nevertheless very fine 
fellows, and contrived, at odd hours, evenings, and holidays, 
to indemnify themselves very tolerably for their hours of 
durance vile. He had great confidence, moreover, that 
good fortune would introduce him to some of those choice 
spirits whose experience would initiate him into many use- 
ful secrets. 

Joey's expectations were but too well founded : tempta- 
tion lies in wait for youth at every turning and by-path ; 
but when youth starts with the design of voluntarily enter- 
ing her fatal snare, the toils are wound about the prey with 
treble strength, and rarely, if ever, is it disentangled. Joey 
was soon the associate and hero of all the idle and dissolute 

youth in C ; the hero of cock-fights, of bull-baitings, 

of the ring, of the skittle-ground, and every low, cruel, and 
debasing sport that prepares the way, by sure and rapid ad- 
vances, through all the gradations of guilt, towards the jail, 
the convict-ship, and the scaffold. 

Nevertheless, for a considerable time, Josiah contrived to 
keep up a very fair character with his employers — so clear 
and prompt was his despatch of business — and (with very 
few exceptions) so punctual and assiduous his attention to 
office hours. Beyond those seasons, their watchfulness ex- 
tended not, and no glaring misdemeanour, on the part of 
their young clerk, had yet awakened any degree of suspi- 
cious vigilance. 

The heart of Andrew Cleaves was, therefore, gladdened 
by such reports of his son's official conduct, as, coming 
from so respectable a quarter, were in his estimation suffi- 
cient surety of general good conduct, and he was conse- 
quently lulled into a fatal security, not even invaded by 
any of those vague and flying rumours which generally 
lead the way to painful but important discoveries. Andrew 
Cleaves had no friends — it could scarcely be said, any ac- 
quaintance — alas ! it is to be feared, no wellwishers. Be- 
yond the cold concerns of business, he had maintained 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 197 

no intercourse with his fellow-men. His world was a con- 
_tracted span ; two objects of interest occupied it wholly — 
his wealth and his son. But there was no equipoise be- 
tween the scales that held those treasures. He would not, 
in Shylock's place, have been in suspense between " his 
ducats and his daughter." 

Gold had been his idol, till superseded by that living 
claimant, to whose imagined good all other considerations 
became secondary and subservient, and for whom (looking 
to worldly aggrandizement as the grand point of attainment, 
though Andrew talked well of " the one thing needful") he 
continued to improve upon his habits of parsimony and ac- 
cumulation, so as to deny himself the common comforts be- 
coming necessary to his advancing years. But the hard 
gripe occasionally relaxed at the persuasive voice of Josiah's' 
eloquence ; and that hopeful youth, as he advanced in the 
ways of iniquity, made especial progress in its refined arts 
of specious hypocrisy, to which, alas ! his early training 
had too favourably disposed him. 

It would be a tedious and distasteful task minutely to 
trace the progressive steps by which Josiah attained that 
degree of hardened profligacy which marked his character 
by the time he had completed his nineteenth year — the se- 
cond of his clerkship in Messrs. 's counting-house. The 

marvel is that his seat on the high office-stool had not 
been vacated long before the expiration of that period* 
The eyes of his employers had for some time been open to 
his disreputable and ruinous courses. Their keen observa- 
tion was of course upon him in all matters that could in 
any way affect their own interests ; and at length, on that 
account, as well as from more conscientious motives, which 
ought to have had earlier influence, they deemed it requi- 
site to arouse the fears of the still-deluded parent, and to 
recommend his interference to avert, if possible, the dan- 
gerous career of his infatuated son. Alas ! it was a cruet 
caution, for it came too late. Too late, except to excite 
the father's fears to a sudden pitch of agony, which pro- 
voked him to bitter upbraidings and violent denunciations, 
and thus contributed to sear the already corrupted heart of 
17* 



198 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVI. 

the insensate youth, and to accelerate his desperate plung^e 
into irretrievable ruin. 

It was well known at C that Andrew Cleaves had 

(for a man in his station) amassed considerable wealth, and 
that his idolized and only son would inherit it undivided ; 
and in that confidence there were not wanting venturous 
and unprincipled persons, who not only gave him credit in 
the way of trade, to an unwarrantable amount, but even ad- 
vanced him loans from time to time, on the speculation of 
future repayment with usurious interest. By such means, 
added to the not inconsiderable gratifications he at different 
times obtained from his father, under various specious pre- 
tences, Josiah had been enabled to run a course of low and 
profligate extravagance, far exceeding any thing which had 
entered into the suspicions of his employers, or the tardily 
aroused apprehensions of the distressed father. Among the 
threats of that abused parent, there was one which Josiah 
doubted not would be promptly executed — a public adver- 
tisement in C , that Andrew Cleaves held himself no- 
wise answerable for any debts his son might think proper to 
contract — an exposure which would not only cut him off 
from all future supplies, but probably create such distrust of 
his hitherto undoubted heirship, as to bring forward all the 
claims standing against him, and irritate his father beyond 
hope of accommodation. 

But the idea of absconding from C had long been 

familiar to Josiah, and he had for some time past been con- 
nected with a set of characters, whose daring exploits, and 
communication with the metropolis, had fired his ambition 
to emulate the former, and to transfer his genius to a thea- 
tre more worthy its enterprising capabilities. Yet Josiah 's 
heart was not quite hardened. It had not lost all pleasant 
remembrance of his days of boyish happiness — of the indul- 
gences of his father's dwelling, and of the repressed, but i\U 
dissembled fondness of that doting parent, whose proud and 
severe nature had even accommodated itself to offices of 
womanly tenderness, for the feeble infant left motherless to 
his care. 

There were still moments — even in the circle of his vile- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. : 199 

associates — even in the concerting their infamous schemes 
— or while the profane oath still volleyed from his tongue, 
and the roar of riotous mirth and licentious song resounded 
— there were moments, even then, when recollection of bet- 
ter things flashed across his mind like angel's wings athwart 
the pit of darkness, and he shuddered with transient horror 
at the appalling contrast. 

The faint gleam of such a mental vision still haunted him 
at the breaking up of a riotous meeting, during which h^ had 
finally arranged with his confederates the plan which was 
to remove him (probably for ever !) from C and its vi- 
cinity. " But I will have one more look at the old place 
before I go," suddenly resolved Josiah, when he had parted 
from his companions. " At least I will have a last look at 
the outside of the walls — though I can't go in — I canH face 
the old man before I leave him ; he would not pass over 
what can't be undone — and there's no going back now — ^but 
I will see the old place again." 

It was late on the Sabbath evening when Josiah formed 
this sudden resolution ; and so quickly was it carried into 
effect, that it wanted near an hour to midnight when he 
reached the low boundary of the cottage garden. 

It was a calm delicious night of ripening spring — so 
hushed and still, you might have heard the falling showers 
of overblown apple blossoms. Josiah lingered for a mo- 
ment with his hand on the garden wicket ; and while he 
thus tarried, was startled by a sudden but familiar sound 
from the adjacent close. It was the winnying salutation of 
his old friend Greybeard, who having perceived with fine 
instinct the approach of his young master and quondam 
playmate, came forward, as in days of yore, to the holly 
hedge which divided his pasture from the garden, and 
poking his white nose through the old gap betwixt the 
hawthorn and the gate, greeted him with that familiar 
winny. 

" Ah, old boy ! is it thou ?" said the youth, in a low hur- 
ried voice, as he stopped a moment to stroke the face of 
his faithful favourite — " Dost thou bid me welcome home, 
old fellow? — Well, that's something !" and a short unnatu- 



200 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVI4 

ral laugh finished the sentence, as he turned from the lov- 
ing creature, and with quick, but noiseless steps, passed up 
the garden walk to the front of the quiet cottage. 

Quiet as the grave it stood in the flood of moonlight ; its 
lonely tenant had long since gone to rest, and no beam 
from hearth or taper streamed through the diamond panes 
of the small casements. 

The prodigal gazed for a moment on the white walls — 
on the honeysuckle already flov/ering round his own case- 
ment — then stepped within the porch, and softly and fear- 
fully, as it were, raised his hand to the latch — which, how- 
ever, he lifted not — only softly laid his hand upon it, and 
so, with eyes rooted to the ground, stood motionless for a 
few minutes, till the upraised arm dropped heavily ; and 
with something very like a sigh, he turned from the door of 
his father's dwelling to retrace his steps towards C . 

Yet once again in his way down the garden path he 
turned to look on the home he was forsaking. At that 
moment the evil spirit slept within him, and his better 
nature was stirring in his heart. The repose of night — 
its " beauty of holiness" — the healing influence of the 
pure fresh air — the sight of that familiar scene — nay, the 
fond greeting of his dumb favourite — the thought for what 
purpose he was there — and of the old man who slept within 
those silent walls, unconscious of the shock impending over 
him in the desertion of his only child — all these things 
crowded together with softening influence into the heart of 
that unhappy boy, as he turned a farewell look upon the 
quiet cottage ; — and just then a sound from within smote his 
ear faintly — at first a faint low sound, which deepened by 
degrees into a more audible murmur, and proceeded surely 
from his father's chamber. Josiah started. " Was the old 
man ill?" he questioned with himself. — "111, and alone !" — • 
and without further parley he stepped quickly but noiselessly 
to the low casement, and still cautiously avoiding the possibil- 
ity of being seen from within, gazed earnestly between the 
vine-leaves through the closed latice. The interior of the small 
chamber was quite visible in the pale moonshine — so distinct- 
ly visible that Josiah could even distinguish his father's large 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 201 

silver watch hanging at the bed's head in its nightly place 
— and on that bed two pillows were yet laid side by side, 
(it was the old man's eccentric humour,) as in the days 
when his innocent child shared with him that now solitary 
couch. But neither pillow had been pressed that night — 
the bed was still unoccupied : and beside it knelt Andrew 
Cleaves, visibly in an agony of prayer — for his unpraised 
hands were clasped above the now bald and furrowed brow. 
His head was flung far back in the fervour of supplication 
— and though the eyelids were closed, the lips yet quivered 
with those murmuring accents, which, in the deep stillness 
of midnight, had reached Josiah's ear, and drawn him to 
the spot. It was a sight to strike daggers to the heart of 
the ungrateful child, who knew too well, who felt too assu- 
redly, that for him, offending as he was, that agonizing 
prayer was breathed — that his undutiful conduct and sinful 
courses had inflicted that bitterness of anguish depicted on 
the venerable features of his only parent. Self-convicted, 
self-condemned, the youthful culprit stood gazing as if spell- 
bound, and impulsively, instinctively, his hands also closed 
in the long-neglected clasp of prayer— and unconsciously 
his eyes glanced upward for a second, and perhaps the in- 
articulate aspiration which trembled on his lip was, " God 
be merciful to me a sinner !" Yet such it hardly could 
have been — for that touching cry, proceeding from a deep- 
ly-stricken heart, would have reached the ear of Mercy ; 
and, alas ! those agitated feelings of remorse, which might, 
" if Heaven had willed it," 

" Have matured to penitence and peace," 

were but the faint stirrings of a better spirit doomed to be 
irrevocably quenched ere thoroughly awakened. 

The tempter was at hand, and the infatuated victim 
wanted moral courage to extricate himself by a bold effort, 
while there was yet time, from the snare prepared for his 
destruction. Just at that awful moment, the crisis of his 
fate, when the sense of guilt suddenly smote upon his heart, 
and his better angel whispered — ^" Turn — ^yet turn and 



202 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVI. 

live !" — at that decisive moment a rustling in the holly 
hedge, accompanied by a low whistle and a suppressed 
laugh, broke on his startled ear ; and, as if a serpent had 
stung him, he sprang, without one backward glance, from 
the low casement and the cottage walls ; and almost at a 
bound he cleared the garden path and dashed through the 
little gate, which swung back from his desperate hand with 
jarring violence. 

Those awaited him without from whom he could not 
brook the sneer of ridicule — with whom he had mocked at 
and abjured all good and holy things, and with whose des- 
perate fortunes he had voluntarily embarked his own; and 
well they knew the hold they had upon him, and having at 
that time especial motives to desire his faithful adherence, 
they had dodged his steps to the lone cottage, under a vague 
suspicion, that if an interview should take place between 
the father and son, Nature might powerfully assert her 
rights, and yet detach the youth from their unholy coa-. 
lition. 

" The children of this world are, in their generation, 
wiser than the children of light." They guessed well, and 
too well succeeded in securing their victim ; and before 
Josiah had half retraced the townward way, with his profli- 
gate companions, his mind was again engrossed by their 
nefarious projects, and all that had so recently affected him 
— the whole familiar scene — -the low white cottage — the 
little chamber, and the aged man who knelt beside that 
lonely bed in prayer for an offending child — all these things 
had faded like a vision from his unstable mind ; and, se- 
cretly humiliated at the recollection of his momentary weak- 
ness, the miserable youth bade an eternal adieu to the paths 
of peace and innocence, and gave himself up to work evil 
unreservedly. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 203 



CHAPTER XVII. 

The flood-gates of accusation and information once set 
open, innumerable tongues that had never stirred to give 
timely warning to a person so inaccessible and unpopular as 
was Andrew Cleaves, were voluble in pouring in upon him 
charge upon charge against the son who had been so lately 
not less the darling than the pride of the old man's heart. 
And many a one with whom he had weekly dealings, who 
had refrained from speaking the word in time which might 
have saved a fellow-creature from destruction, because their 
own pride was offended by the reserve of the austere old 
man, now sought him even in his lonely dwelling, to multi- 
ply upon him humiliating proofs of his misfortune, and pro- 
fessions of sympathy and compassion that would have been 
gall and wormwood to his proud spirit, if the overwhelming 
conviction of his son's deceptive and profligate conduct had 
-not already humbled it to the dust. He heard all patiently 
and in silence, attempted no vindication of himself, when the 
comforters obliquely reflected on his blind credulity, by ob- 
serving that they " had long seen how matters were going 
on," that they " had suspected such and such things from 
the first," that they " had always looked sharp after their 
own boys, thank God, but then they were ordinary children 
— no geniuses;" for it was well known how Andrew Cleaves 
had prided himself on his child's superior abilities : and the 
self-sufficient man, who had so long held himself pre-eminent 
in wisdom, qualified to rebuke and instruct others, now lis- 
tened with a subdued spirit to the torrent of unasked and 
impertinent advice, which sounded sweet and pleasant to 
the ears of the intrusive utterers, if it fell harshly and ua- 
profitably on those of the unhappy hearer. 

On the Sabbath morning immediately succeeding that 
Saturday, in the course of which Andrew Cleaves had been 



204 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVII. 

subjected to this spiritual martyrdom, he went twice as usu- 
al to his parish church ; but during divine service his eyes 
were never lifted, even during sermon time, so much as to 
the face of the minister, and his deep sonorous voice min- 
gled not that day with those of the village choristers ; and, 
in going and returning, he shunned all passing salutation, 
and, once within his own threshold, the cottage door was 
closed on all intruders, (for, presuming on his present cir- 
cumstances, such were not wanting to present themselves,) 
and no human eye again beheld him, till that of his unduti- 
ful child, drawn to his chamber window at the still midnight 
hour, looked upon the distress he had occasioned. Not in 
vain had been the long and uninterrupted communing of 
Andrew Cleaves with his own heart and with his God. 
Sweet to him were the uses of adversity, for they had not 
to struggle with a heart of unbelief, neither with one seared 
by vicious courses, nor debased by sensual indulgence. The 
spiritual foundation was sound, though human pride, indu- 
cing moral blindness, had raised on it a dangerous super- 
structure. But when the hour came, and the axe (in mer- 
cy) was struck to the root of the evil, and the haughty spirit 
bowed down in self-abasement, then was the film withdrawn 
from his mental vision, and Andrew Cleaves really looked 
into himself, and detected his besetting sins in all their na- 
ked deformity. Yes — at last he detected his pride, his world- 
liness, his worship of the creature, encroaching on that due 
to the Creator. He felt and confessed his own utter insuf- 
ficiency, and laying down at the foot of the cross the burden 
of his frailties and sorrows, he sought counsel and consola- 
tion at the only source, which is never resorted to in vain. 
As he proceeded in the work of self-examination and self- 
arraignment, his heart relented towards his offending child. 
Had he yielded something of his own inflexible determination 
to the boy's known disinclination for the line of life marked 
out for him, the parental concession might hfive established 
in reality that gratefully filial confidence, the semblance of 
which had been so artfully assumed ; and the father's heart 
was wrung with its bitterest pang, when he called to mind 
the sanctified hypocrisy which had so long imposed upon 



ANDREW CLEAVES. S05 

him, and reflected that his own mistaken system and erro- 
neous measures, his own boasted example of superior sanc- 
tity, might have been the means of ingrafting it on his son's 
character. The fruit of that night's vigil was a determina- 
tion on the part of Andrew, to depart the next morning for 
C — ' — , and seek out his erring child — not with frowns and 
upbraidings, but the more effective arguments of tender re- 
monstrance and mild conciliation ; to inquire into and can- 
cel whatever pecuniary embarrassments he had incurred ; 
and, having done so, to say, "My son, give me thine heart!" 
and then — for who could doubt the effect of such an appeal ? 
— to consult the lad's own wishes with regard to a profes- 
sion, as far as might be compatible with maturer reason and 
parental duty. So resolved, and so projected Andrew Cleaves 
during the sleepless watches of that Sabbath night ; but when 
morning came he found himself unable to act on his determi- 
nation so immediately as he had intended. The conflict of the 
spirit had bowed down the strong man. He arose feeble and 
indisposed, and altogether unequal to the task he had assigned 
himself. Therefore, as the delay of four-and -twenty hours 
could not be material, he determined to pass that interval 
in deliberately reconsidering his new projects, and in acquir- 
ing the composure of mind which would be so requisite in 
the approaching interview with Josiah. Early on the mor- 
row, however, with recruited strength, and matured purpose, 
he hastily despatched the morning's meal, and was prepar- 
ing to depart for C — — , when the sound of approaching 
footsteps, and the swinging to of the garden gate, made him 
pause for a moment with his hand on the latch ; and almost 
before he could lift it, the door was dashed rudely open, and 
three men presented themselves, one of whom stationed 
himself j\ist without the threshold, while the two others 
stepping forward, threw down a warrant on the table, abrupt- 
ly declaring that, by its authority, they were empowered to 
make search for, and arrest, the body of Josiah Cleaves. 
Their abrupt notice fell like a thunderclap on the ear of 
the unfortunate old man ; and yet, for a moment, he 
comprehended not its full and fatal sense, but stood as if 
spell-bound, upright, immovable, every muscle of his strong 
18 



206 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XVII. 

features stiff as in the rigidity of death, and his eyes fixed 
with a stony and vacant stare on the countenance of the 
unfeeling speaker. And yet the man was but outwardly 
hardened by his hateful occupation. His heart was not in- 
sensible to the speechless horror of that harrowing gaze. 
His own eyes fell beneath it, and in softened tones of almost 
compassionate gentleness, he proceeded to explain, that in 
the execution of his duty, he must be permitted to make 
strict search over the cottage, and its adjacent premises, in 
some part of which it was naturally suspected the offender 
might have taken refuge, with the hope of remaining con- 
cealed till the first heat of pursuit was over. As he spoke, 
Andrew Cleaves gradually recovered from the first effects 
of that tremendous shock. His features relaxed from their 
unnatural rigidity, and by a mighty effort, subduing the con- 
vulsive tremor which succeeded for a moment, he regained 
almost his accustomed aspect of stern composure, and in a 
low, but steady voice, calmly demanded for what infraction 
of the laws his son had become amenable to justice. The 
appalling truth was soon communicated. In the course of 

the past night, the counting-house of Messrs. had been 

entered by means of skeleton keys ; access to the cash- 
drawer, the strong box, and other depositories of valuables, 
had been obtained by similar instruments, and considerable 
property in notes, gold, and plate, abstracted by the burglars, 
who had escaped with their booty, and as yet no traces of 
their route had been discovered. Then came the dreadful 
climax, and the officer's voice was less firm as he spoke it, 
though every softened accent fell like an ice-bolt on the fa- 
ther's heart. His son — his only child — his own Josiah, had 
been the planner — the chief perpetrator of the deed. A 
chain of circumstances already elicited — evidence irrefraga- 
ble — left no shadow of uncertainty as to his guilt, and the 
measure of it ; and though he was known to have had ac- 
complices, perhaps to have been the tool of more experienc- 
ed villany, his situation of trust in Messrs. 's firm, and 

the advantage he had taken of it in the perpetration of the 
robbery, deservedly marked him out as the principal offen- 
der, after whom the myrmidons of justice were hottest in 
pursuit. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 207 

The miserable parent listened in silence to the officer's 
brief and not aggtavated communication. He heard all in 
silence, with a steady brow, and a compressed lip, but with 
looks rooted to the ground ; and when all was told, boAving 
down his head, he waved his hand with dignified submis- 
sion, and calmly articulating, " It is enough, do your duty," 
seated himself in his own elbow-chair, from whence he 
stirred not, and neither by word, look, or gesture, gave 
further token of concern in what was going forward, while 
the ineffectual search was proceeding. When it was over, 
and the officers, after a few well-meant but unheeded words 
of attempted comfort, left him alone with his misery, he 
was heard to arise and close the cottage door, making it 
fast within with bar and bolt ; and from that hour, no mor- 
tal being beheld Andrew Cleaves, till, on the third day from 
that on which his great sorrow had fallen upon him, he was 

seen slowly walking up the High street of C , with an 

aspect as composed as usual, though its characteristic stern- 
ness was softened to a milder seriousness, as if the correct- 
ing hand of God had affixed that changed expression, and 
his tall, athletic form, hitherto upright as the cedar, bent 
earthward with visible feebleness, as though, since he trode 
that pavement last, ten added years had bowed him nearer 
to the grave. His calamity was generally known, and as 
generally commiserated ; for even those whose contracted 
hearts, and mean tempers, had taken unchristian delight in 
mortifying the Pharisaical and parental pride of a man so 
arrogant in his prosperity, now that the hand of the Lord 
lay heavily on him, were affected by the sacredness of a 
sorrow for which there was no balm in human sympathy,, 
and were awed by the quiet dignity of his silent resignation^ 
As he passed on, many a hat was touched with silent re- 
spect, whose wearer he was personally unacquainted with^ 
and many hands were extended to his, by persons who had 
never in their lives before accosted him with that kindly 
greeting. 

To those who addressed him with a few words of cordiaL 
but unavailing concern and sympathy, he replied without 
impatience, but with a brief and simple acknowledgement^ 



208 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XVII. 

or a lowly uttered — -" God's will be done ;" and withdrawing 
himself, as soon as possible, from the cruol kindness of his 
comforters, he betook himself, with all the undiminished 
energy of his uncommon character, to transact the business 
which had urged him forth into the haunts of men, in the 
first nakedness of his affliction. To satisfy the demands of 

tradespeople and other inhabitants of C , who had claims 

on his unhappy son, was his first concern, as it had been his 
intention before the last stroke of ruin ; and that done, he 

repaired to the banking-house of Messrs. ; and having 

ascertained the actual loss those gentlemen had sustained by 
the late robbery — and setting aside even their own admis- 
sion, that others had assisted in the perpetration, and parta- 
ken of the booty with his unhappy boy — he proceeded, with 
unwavering inflexibility of purpose, to make over to them, 
without reservation or condition, the entire sum of his long- 
accumulating wealth, of which their house had been the faith- 
ful depository ; and the first faint sensation of relief which 
lightened the heart of the afflicted father, was that when 
he received into his hands, not an acquittance of his son's 

criminal abstraction, from which he well knew Messrs. 

could not legally absolve him, but an acknowledgement of 
such and such monies paid into the establishment, as due to 
it on account of his son Josiah. That payment reimbursed 
the firm within a trifle of their actual loss, and the deficien- 
cy was made good to them in a fortnight, by the sale of a 
few acres of Andrew's paternal farm — the little patrimony 
he had tilled and cultivated with the sweat of his brow, in 
the natural and honest hope of transmitting it entire and 
unalienable to his descendants, though destined, in his fond 
anticipation, to form but an inconsiderable portion of the 
worldly wealth to which he aspired for his young Josiah. 
The greater part of the land in the occupation of Andrew 
Cleaves, was held on renewable leases — a term whereof ex- 
piring about the time of his great calamity, he resigned the 
whole into his landlord's hands. 

The concern, though considerable, had hitherto been but 
the healthful and salutary occupation of his hale and vigo- 
rous age, and its annual bringings in were still added to the 



ANtoREW CLEAVfiS. 20^ 

previous hoard for him who was to inherit alL But that 
great stimulus was gone forever. For whom should he now 
toil ? — for whom should he accumulate ? For whom — to 
what, look forward ? " To Heaven," was the fervent re- 
sponse of his own heart, when the desolate old man thus 
mused within himself, but with earth what more had he 
to do ? " Sweet are the lessons of adversity." His elder 
sin — his abstract covetousness — was dead within him. The 
few paternal acres with which he had begun the world, would 
more than furnish a sufficiency for his contracted wants, and 
even afford a surplus to reserve for future exigencies ; and 
in calculating those, he thought far less of his own desolate 
old age, than of the wretched exile, whose cry might come 
from afar to the ear of his forsaken parent, should disease 
and misery fall upon him, and the associates of his guilt leave 
him to perish in his helplessness. It was a miserable hope, 
but still it was hope, and it lent the old man energy and 
strength to ply his rural labours, in their now contracted 
space, with almost undiminished activity. 

Weeks slipped away — weeks — months — a year — four 
years. Four years had come and gone since the day that left 
Andrew Cleaves a worse than childless father — the forlorn 
tenant of his paternal cottage, which, with its appendencies 
of barn, out-buildings, and a few fields, was all that then re- 
mained to him of his previous prosperity. 

Four years had passed since then, and the old man still 
lived. The same roof still sheltered him, the same small 
garden still yielded its produce to his laborious hands. But 
that small dwelling, and that poor patch of ground, and its ad- 
joining slip of pasturage, a crazy cart, one cow, and one old 
horse — the favourite grey colt, now white with age — these 
were all the possessions that Andrew Cleaves could now call 
his own in the wide world. A cry had come from afar — 
the appeal of guilt and misery — and it came not unheeded. 
Again and again the father's heart was wrung, and his 
straitened means were drained to the uttermost to supply 
the necessities, or alas ! the fraudulent cravings of the mis- 
erable supplicant. And now and then professions of con- 
trition, and promises of reform, served to keep up the pa- 
18* 



210 CHURCHYAEDS. CHAP. XVH* 

rent's hope ; and, old and impoverished as he was, he would 
have taken up his staff and travelled uncounted leagues to 
have thrown himself upon the outcast's neck, and received 
into his own bosom the tears of the repentant prodigal. But 
under various pretences, the wretched youth still evaded all 
propositions of this nature, though his communications be- 
came more frequent — more apparently unreserved — more 
regular and plausible — and at last came such as, while he 
read them, blinded the old man's eyes with tears of gratitude 
and joy. It was an artfully constructed tale. The elo- 
cjuence of an itinerant preacher had touched the stony heart. 
Then came the hour of conversion — of regeneration — of 
justification — of peace unspeakable ! Pious friends had re- 
joiced over their converted brother — had associated him in 
their labours — deeming him a fit instrument to convince 
others, himself a shining testimony of the power of grace — 
and then points of worldly consideration were cautiously in- 
troduced. For him there was no safety in his native land ; 
but other lands offered a refuge — a decent maintenance — 
above all, a spiritual harvest ; and thither, by many unques- 
tionable tokens, he felt himself called to labour in the vine- 
yard. A little band of elect Christians were about to em- 
bark themselves and families for a distant mission. To them 
he was, as it were, constrained in spirit to join himself — and 
then came the pith and marrow of the whole — the point to 
which these hypocritical details had tended — to his kind pa- 
rent, his forgiving father, he looked for the pecuniary assist- 
ance necessary to fit him out for a long voyage and distant 
establishment. And there were references given to " reve- 
rend gentlemen," and " serious Christians ;" and letters con- 
firming Josiah's statement were actually addressed to An- 
drew Cleaves by more than one pious enthusiast, blessed 
with more zeal than discretion, whose credulity had been 
imposed on by the pretended convert. 

This well-concerted story was but too successful. All 
lurking doubts were discarded from Andrew's mind when 
he succeeded in ascertaining that the letters addressed to 
him were actually written by the persons whose names 
were affixed as signatures — names long familiar to him in 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 211 

the pages of the EvangeKcal Magazines, and Missionary 
Registers. "Now may I depart in peace," was the old 
man's inward ejaculation, as, full of joyful gratitude, he de- 
spoiled himself of nearly his last earthly possessions to for- 
ward what he believed the brightening prospects of his re- 
pentant child. The reversion of his cottage and garden 
and the small close, was promptly, and without one selfish 
pang, disposed of to a fair bidder, and an order for the sum 
it sold for as quickly transmitted to the unworthy expect- 
ant, together with a multifarious assortment of such arti- 
cles as the deceived parent, in his simplicity of heart, fond- 
ly imagined might contribute to the comfort and conve- 
nience of the departing exile. A few good books were 
slipped into the package, and Josiah's own Bible and 
Prayer-book were not fogotten. Involuntarily the old man 
paused as he was carefully enfolding the former in its green 
baize cover ; involuntarily he paused a moment ; and al. 
most unconsciously opened the sacred volume, and on the 
few words written on the fly-leaf two-and-twenty years be- 
fore by his own hand, his eyes dwelt intently till the sight 
became obscured, and a large drop falling on the simple 
inscription, startled the venerable writer from his fond, 
abstraction. 

Day after day, the now comforted but anxious father 
expected the coming letter of filial acknowledgement. Day 
after day, procrastinating the tasks on which depended his 

whole subsistence, he was at C^ by the hour of the 

mail's arrival, and evening after evening he returned to his 
solitary home — his frugal, alas ! his now scanty meal, sick 
at heart with " hope deferred," yet devising plausible pre- 
tences for retaining the blissful illusion. But at length its 
feding hues were utterly effaced — no word — no letter — no 
communication came ; silence, — chilling, withering, death- 
like silence, — held on its palsying course ; and, once more 
divested of all earthly hope, Andrew Cleaves leant wholly 
for support on the staff which faileth not in direst extremi- 
ty. But the fiery trial had not reached its chmax. The 
gold was yet to be more thoroughly refined, yea, proved ta 
the uttermoat. 



212 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XVIII. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 



Three months had elapsed since the last day of Andrew's 
short-lived gladness, when a rumour reached him which had 

been for some time current at C , that his unhappy son 

had been seen in the neighbourhood, and recognized by more 
than one person, in spite of the real and artificial change 
which had taken place in his appearance ; that he had been 
observed in company with suspected characters, some of 
whom were believed to be connected with a gang of horse- 
stealers, whose depredations had lately proceeded to an au- 
dacious extent in C and its vicinity ; and that two 

houses had lately been broken open under circumstances 
that evidenced the skilful practice of experienced thieves. 
The painful warning came not to an incredulous ear. That 
of the unhappy father was but too well prepared for the 
worst that might betide. But this vague perception of im- 
pending calamity — this indefinite anticipation of something 
near and terrible — was, of all his painful experiences, the 
most difficult to endure with Christian equanimity. 

For many days and nights after he heard that frightful 
rumour, Andrew Cleaves knew not an hour of peaceful 
thought, nor one of quiet slumber. However employed in 
his cottage — in his garden — if a passing cloud but cast a 
momentary shadow, he started from his task, and looked 
fearfully abroad for the feet of those who might be swift to 
bring evil tidings. And in the silence of night, and during 
the unrest of his thorny pillow, the stirring of a leaf — the 
creaking of the old vine stems — the rustling of the martin 
on her nest under the eaves — sounded to his distempered 
fancy like steps, and whispers, and murmuring voices. And 
once, when the night-hawk dashed against his casement in 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 813 

her eccentric circles, he started from his bed with the sud- 
den thought (it came Uke hghtning) " was it possible that 
he — the guilty one — the wretched — the forsaken — might 
have stolen near, under the shadow of night, to gaze like 
the first outcast Cain, on the tents of peace, from which he 
was forever exiled ?" — " Oh ! not from hence — not from his 
father's roof?" was the old man's unconscious murmur, as, 
under the influence of that agitating thought, he flung open 
the cottage door, and stepped out into the quiet garden. 
There was no sign nor sound of mortal intrusion — no foot- 
print on the dewy herb-bed beneath the casement, betraying 
its pressure by the exhalation of unwonted fragrance. The 
old horse was grazing quietly in his small pasture ; the gar- 
den-gate close latched, and no objects visible on the common 
to which it opened, but the dark low pyramids of furze, dis- 
tinct in the cloudless starlight. And soon that feverish 
fancy passed away from the old man's mind as the balmy 
air played round his throbbing temples, and he inhaled the 
wafting of that thymy common, and listened to the natural 
tones of midnight's diapason, and gazed fixedly on the dark- 
blue heaven, and its starry myriads — 

*' For ever singing as they shine, 
• The hand that made us is divine.'" 

Ten days had dragged on heavily since Andrew Cleaves's 
mournful tranquillity had been thus utterly overthrown. 
During all that time he had not ventured beyond his own 

little territory. The weekly journey to C with his 

cart-load of rural merchandise, (the produce of his garden 
and his dairy,) had been relinquished, though its precari- 
ous sale now furnished his sole means of subsistence. But 
towards the end of the second week, finding himself un- 
molested by fresh rumours or corroborations, he began to 
take hope that the whispers of his son's re-appearance in 
the neighbourhood might have arisen on vague suspicion, or 
the slight ground of fancied or accidental resemblance. 
So reasoning with himself, the old man shook ofl*, as far as 
in him lay, the influence of those paralysing apprehen- 
sions, and his morbid reluctance to re-enter the busy streets 



214 CHUKCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

of C , where he felt as if destined to encounter some 

fresh and overwhelming misfortune. But though Andrew 
Cleaves's iron nerves and powerful mind had been thus 
enfeebled by his late trial of torturing suspense, he was 
not one to encourage vague forebodings, or give way to 
pusillanimous weakness ; so, girding up his loins for re- 
newed exertions, he loaded his little cart with its accus- 
tomed freight, and, as cheerfully as might be, set off for 
C market. By the time he reached it, bodily exer- 
cise and mental exertion co-operating with change of scene 
and variety of objects, had in a great measure restored to 
him his usual firmness and self-possession, and he transacted 
his business clearly and prosperously— provided himself 
with such few articles of home-consumption as he had been 

accustomed weekly to take back from C , and once 

more set his face homeward, inwardly blessing God that he 
was permitted to return in peace. 

As he turned the corner of Market Street, into that where 
stood the court-house, in which the magistrates were hold- 
ing their weekly meeting, his progress was impeded by an 
unusual crowd which thronged the doors of the building, 
with an appearance of uncommon excitation. Andrew 
was, however, slowly making way through the concourse, 
when two or three persons observed and recognized him — 
and suddenly a whisper ran through the crowd, and a 
strange hush succeeded, and all eyes were directed towards 
him, as the people pressed back, as though, in sympathetic 
concert, to leave free passage for his humble vehicle. But 
the old man, instead of profiting by their spontaneous cour- 
tesy, unconsciously tightened his reins and gazed about him 
with troubled and bewildered looks. In a moment he felt 
himself the object of general observation, and then his eyes 
wandered instinctively to the court-house doors, from 
whence confused sounds proceeded, and at that moment one 
or two persons from within spoke with the eager listeners on 
the steps ; and the words — " prisoner" — and " committed,'* 
smote upon Andrew's ear, and the whole flashed upon him.. 
As if struck by an electric shock, he started up, and, leap- 
ing upon the pavement with a.11 the agility of youthful yi* 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 215 

gour, would have dashed into the justice hall, but for a firm 
and friendly grasp which forcibly withheld him. Wildly 
striking down the detaining hand, he was rushing forward, 
when himself and all those about the doors were suddenly 
forced back by a posse of constables and others descending 
the court-house steps, and clearing the way for those who 
were conducting the prisoner to jail. And now it was that 
the poor old man, overcome by agonizing expectation, 
leaned heavily and unconsciously on the friendly arm which 
a moment before he had dashed aside with impatient reck- 
lessness. Cold drops gathered upon his forehead — he 
breathed short and thick, and his sight became misty and 
imperfect, as he strained it with painful intensity towards 
the open doorway. But it cleared partially as the expected 
group came forth. Three persons only — the middlemost a 
handcuffed, guarded felon, whose downcast features, hag- 
gard, and dark, and fierce — and shadowed by a mass of 
coarse red hair, were seen but for a moment, as he was hur- 
ried short round the corner of the court-house to the adja- 
cent prison. But the old man had seen them — he had seen 
enough ; a genial glow diffused itself through his shivering 
frame — and with a burst of renovated energy he clasped his 
upraised hands forcibly together, and cried out with a pierc- 
ing voice — " It is not he — Oh, God ! it is not Ae." It was 
a piercing cry ! The prisoner started, and half turned — but 
he was hurried off, and the crowd had already closed in be- 
tween him and Andrew Cleaves, who, recovering a degree 
of self-possession, looked up at last to note and thank those 
who had befriended him in his agony. Every where — from 
all eyes — ^he encountered looks of compassionate interest 
and distressful meaning ; and no one spoke but in some low 
whisper to his neighbour — and again Andrew's heart sunk 
with a strange fearful doubt. But had he not beheld with 
his own eyes ? — That dark gaunt countenance ! — Those 
fiery elf-locks ! — ^^That could not be my curly-headed boy 
— You saw it was not he !" the old man uttered, as his eyes 
wandered with imploring anxiety from face to face, and 
resting at last on that of the friend whose arm still lent him 
its requisite support, read there such a page of fearful mean- 



216 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

ing, as scarce needed the confirmation of words to reveal 
the whole extent of his calamity. But the words were spo- 
ken — the few and fatal words which dispelled his transient 
security. They sounded on his ear like the stunning din 
of rushing waters, yet were they low and gentle ; but his 
physical and mental powers were failing under the rapid 
transitions of conflicting passions, and overtasked nature 
obtained a merciful respite, by sinking for a time into a 
state of perfect unconsciousness. 

It needs not to detail the particulars of that last daring 
exploit which had been the means of consigning Josiah 
into the hands of justice, nor of the progressive circum- 
stances which had drawn him back, step by step, with the 
hardened confidence of infatuated guilt, to receive the pun- 
ishment of his crimes on the very spot where he had first 
broken through the laws of God and man. Neither will 
we attempt to trace the journals of those miserable weeks 
that intervened between his committal .to the county jail 
and his trial, which came on at the next assizes. Still less 
may we venture to paint minutely the first meeting of pa- 
rent and child, in such a place, under such circumstances ; 
— on one side, the overwhelming agony of grief and tender- 
ness, — on the other, the callous exterior of sullen insensibil- 
ity, and sneering recklessness, and unfilial reproaches, 
" sharper than a serpent's tooth." It is too painful to dwell 
on such a scene — too harrowing to depict it. Rather let 
us pass on to the brighter days of that awful interval which 
was most blessed in its prolongation. Light from above 
penetrated the depth of the dungeon. The prayer of faith 
prevailed. The sinner's heart was touched ; and at last 
the tears of the repentant son fell like balm upon the father's 
bosom. From that hour the gracious work was gradually 
perfected. The good seed, though mixed with tares, had 
been sown already in Josiah's heart, and God gave time, in 
mercy, that the parental hand which had first sown it there, 
should, with gentle and dear-bought experience, revive the 
long-hidden and unfruitful germ, and cherish it into life 
everlasting. The father's labour of love had been ably se- 
conded by the Christian zeal of the officiating chaplain, 



ANbRteW CL^AVteS. S17 

who was unremitting in his visits to the prisoner's cell, es- 
pecially at those times when imperious necessity detained 
Andrew Cleaves at his own desolate home, or forced him 
more unwillingly into the public haunts. But when (as 
was not unfrequent) Mr. Grey found the father and the son 
together, it was very affecting to observe with what a chas- 
tised and humble spirit the aged man acknowledged his own 
deficiencies — -his own need of instruction, and his own earn- 
est desire to profit by the spiritual teaching, and pious 
exhortations, addressed to his unhappy son. Mr. Grey's 
Voice not seldom faltered with emotion, as he looked on his 
two hearers, the eyes of both fixed on him with such earn- 
est reverence !— ^of the beautiful youth ! — and the old grey- 
haired man ! and both so near the grave ! 

The awful hour approached of Josiah's arraignment be- 
fore an earthly tribunal ; but his trial did not come on till 
the last day of the assizes^ Its result was inevitable, had 
the cause been defejided by the ablest counsel in the land ; 
but no defence was attempted— all had been pre-arranged 
between the father and son-; and Vv^hen the latter, in a 
l-ow but steady voice, pleaded "guilty" to the charge 
against him, and, in spite of merciful dissuasion from the 
Bench itself, firmly persisted in that plea, and it was finally 
recorded, the aged parent who had accompanied him into 
court, and borne up through all the preliminary forms with 
unshaken fortitude, bowed his head in token of perfect ac- 
quiescence with that decisive act, and, yielding at last to 
natural weakness, suffered himself to be led away, as the 
judge arose to pronounce the sentence. 

On the evening of the day preceding that appointed for 
his execution, far different was the scene in Josiah's cell, 
from what it presented in the earlier stages of his imprison- 
ment. Its occupants were the same as then — the old af- 
flicted man, and the poor guilty youth — and they were 
alone together, and now for the last time, and earthly hope 
was none for either of them. And yet in that gloomy 
cell — that portal of the grave was Hope, not born of this 
world, and Peace, such as the world "can neither give nor 
take away," In the father's heart a humble and holy con- 
19 



218 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XVIII. 

fidence, that, through Christ's atonement and intercession, 
the pardon of his repentant child was already registered in 
heaven ; and in the son's, a more chastised and trembling 
hope, built up on the same corner-stone, and meekly testi- 
fied by a perfect submission to his awarded doom, far re- 
moved from the miserable triumph of false courage, and 
the presumptuous confidence of fanatic delusion. 

That evening was the close of the last Sabbath Josiah 
was to pass on earth, and the old man had obtained the 
mournful privilege of being locked up for the night in the 
condemned cell. Father and son had that day partaken 
together of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper ; and when 
the pious and compassionate chaplain who had adminis- 
tered that holy rite looked in upon them before the closing 
of the prison doors, they were sitting together upon the low 
hard pallet, side by side, hand clasped in hand ; and few 
words passed between them, for they had spoken all. But 
the Bible lay open upon the father's knees, and the eyes of 
both followed the same line, on the same page, as the old 
man occasionally read, in his deep solemn voice, some 
strengthening and consolatory sentence. The youth's tall 
slight form was visibly attenuated, and his face was very 
pale — yet it had regained much of its sweet and youth- 
ful expression. The jetty curls, of which his father had 
been so proud, again clustered in glossy richness on his 
white and polished forehead, and as his head leaned against 
the old man's shoulder, a large tear, which had trembled on 
the long black fringes of his downcast eyelids, dropped on 
the sacred page, which assuredly it profaned not. As the 
good chaplain gazed upon that youthful countenance, his 
own eyes filled with tears, and he almost groaned within 
himself — " To be cut off so young !" But repressing that 
involuntary thought, as one of sinful questioning with Hea- 
ven, he addressed to each of his heart-stricken hearers a 
few fitting words of comfort and exhortation ; and having 
kneeled down with them in short but fervent prayer, and 
promised to revisit them at the earliest hour of admission, 
he departed for the night with his Master's emphatic 
words — " Peace be with you !" 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 219 

The pale cold light of a November dawn yet feebly visited 
the cell, when Mr. Grey re-entered early on the fatal morn- 
ing, and all was so still within, he thought both slept, the 
parent and the child. Both had lain down together on the 
narrow pallet, and the youth's eyes were heavy, and he 
" slept for sorrow ;" but in age the whole weight falls icith' 
in, and presses not upon the aching eyelids — so the old man 
slept not. The son's cheek was pillowed on the father's 
breast, every feature composed in angelic peace, and his 
slumbers were deep and tranquil as those of infant inno- 
cence. One long pale hand was clasped within his father's 
— in that hard withered hand which had toiled for him so 
long — and as the chaplain drew near, and stooped over the 
bed, the old man, who had been so intently watching his 
child's placid sleep as not to heed the opening of the cell, 
turned his head round with an impatient gesture, as if to 
prevent the disturbance of that blessed rest. Perhaps he 
also had slumbered for a while, and awaking with that 
young head upon his bosom, where it had so often lain in 
the beauty of childhood, his mind had wandered back con- 
fusedly to that blissful season and its fair vision of parental 
hope. But one glance round the walls of the small prison 
room at the person of the reverend visiter, recalled him to 
the scene of sad reality, and knowing that the hour was 
come, he cast upward one earnest look of unutterable sup- 
plication, and softly pressing his lips to the forehead of the 
still unconscious sleeper, thus tenderly awakened him as he 
had often done before to light and joy ; but now to the light 
of a new day, which for him, whose hours were numbered, 
was to have no morrow but eternity. And from that hour, 
till the earthly expiation was complete, Andrew Cleaves left 
not for one single instant the side of his unhappy son ; and 
having surely received strength from above, proportioned to 
his great necessity, not only sustained himself firmly 
throughout the tremendous trial, but soothed and supported 
the fainting spirit of the poor youth in his dishonoured pas- 
sage through the valley of the shadow of death, whispering 
hope and consolation even within the portal of that gloomy 
gate, through which, according to the course of nature, him- 



220 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIIl, 

self should have gone first. And when all was over, hm 
aged hands helped to compose in its narrow receptacle that 
youthful form which should have followed his own remains 
to a peaceful grave, and laid his grey head reverently in the 
dust. 

Andrew Cleaves had provided that his own cart, with the 
old favourite horse, should be in readiness at the place of 

execution, that Gallows-hill, at a short distance from C > 

where his first outset with the young Josiah bad been so 
ominously impeded. Compunctious bittepness might have 
sharpened the arrow in his heart, had the absorbing present 
left Foom for retrospection. But to him the past, the future, 
and all extraneous circumstances, were for a time annihi- 
lated. In comparatively light afiliction, the heart takes 
strange delight in aggravating its own sufferings with bitter 
fancies, and dear remembrances, and dark anticipations ; 
but a mighty grief sufiiceth unto itself in its terrible indi- 
viduality. 

So absorbed, yet acting as if mechanically impelled 
while aught remained to do, the old man proceeded with 
his appointed task, and having, with the assistance of friend- 
ly hands, lifted into the cart the shell containing that poor 
all which now remained to him on earth, he quietly took 
his seat beside it, while those who had so far lent their char- 
itable aid, prepared to accompany the humble vehicle with 
its mournful freight, and to lead the old horse — ah ! how 
unconscious of his charge — with slow and respectful pace^ 
to the desolate home of his aged master.. Just as the sim- 
ple arrangement was complete, the old man, whose eyes 
had not once wandered from the coffin, lifted them for a 
moment to the face of a woman, who had touched him acci*- 
dentally, as she stood beside the cart. The sight of that 
face was like lightning from the past. It flashed through 
heart and brain, and wakened every nerve that thrilled to 
torturing memory ; and almost he could have cried aloud— 
" Hast thou found me, oh, mine enemy ?" but he refrained 
himself; and groaning inwardly, let fall his head upon his 
breast in deep humihty. Then slowly lifting it, looked up 
again into that i;emembered face, still fixed on him with an 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 221 

expression of unforgetting hardness ; and laying his hand 
upon the coffin, he said in a subdued tone, " Woman ! pray 
for me — the time is come." 

The old man looked up no more, neither spake nor moved, 
nor betrayed further signs of consciousness, till the humble 
car, with its charitable escort, stopt at the gate of his own 
cottage garden. Then rousing himself to fresh exertion, his 
first care was to assist in bearing the body of his dead son 
under the shelter of that roof, beneath which, three-and- 
twenty years before, he had welcomed him, a new-born babe, 
and to place the coffin (for he would have it so) on his own 
bed, in his own chamber. Then lingering for a moment 
behind those who had helped him to deposit the untimely 
burden, he drew the white curtain bofore the little casement, 
glanced round the chamber as if to ascertain that all was 
arranged with respectful neatness, and stepping softly, like 
one who feared to disturb the slumbers of the sick, paused 
on the threshold to look back for a moment, and making 
fast the door, as if to secure his treasure, followed his friends 
into the outer room, and with quiet and collected firmness, 
rendered to all his grateful acknowledgments for their char- 
itable services, and set before them such refreshment as his 
poor means had enabled him to provide. 

Neither, while they silently partook round his humble 
board, did he remit aught of kindly hospitality, nor was it 
apparently by any painful effort that he so exerted himself. 
But there was that in his countenance and deportment, and 
in the tone of his low deep voice, which arrested the words 
of those who would have pressed him to " eat and drink, 
and be comforted," and carried conviction to the hearts of 
all, that to his affliction One only could minister ; and that 
having rendered him all the active service immediately need- 
ful, they should best consult his wishes by leaving him to 
the unmolested quiet of his solitary cottage. There was a 
whispering among themselves, as they stood up to depart, — 
and then a few lowly spoken, but earnest proffers were made, 
to return at the close of evening, and watch through the 
hours of darkness, (while the old grey head took rest in 
sleep,) by him whose slumbers needed no guardianship. But 
19* 



222 CHURCHYARDS.- — CHAP^ XVni. 

the kindly offer was declined with a gentle shake of the 
head, and a faint smile, which spoke more meaningly than 
words- — and the old man spoke also, and thanked and blessed 
them, and bade them take no care for him, for he should 
*' now take rest." So they retired — slowly and reluctantly 
retired — and left him to his coveted solitude. 

But there were not wanting some who, deeply moved 
with compassionate anxiety for the desolate old man, came 
about the cottage after nightfall, and crept close to its walls 
with stealthy footsteps. And they told how, looking cau- 
tiously into the chamber of death, wherein a light was burn- 
ing, they saw a sight which so strangely and powerfully 
affected them, that (rough peasants as they were) they 
could not afterwards speak of it with unfaltering voices. 
The coffin, from which the lid had been removed, rested, 
as they had helped to place it, at the old man's desire, on 
one half of his own bedstead ; and beside it, he had since 
arranged his mattress and pillow, and then (his head press- 
ing against the coffin, and one arm flung across over its 
side) he lay at length in sweet and tranquil slumber. He 
had told them he should " now take rest ;" and, doubtless, 
that rest so taken, strange and awful as it was to look upon, 
was sweet and blessed, in comparison with all he had lately 
tasted. For him the bitterness of death was past ; and the 
nearness of his own change made of slight account the little 
intervening space of earthly darkness. Once more his son 
lay beside him on that same bed they had so often shared 
together ; and perhaps the moment of reunion with his for- 
given child was already anticipated in the dreams of that 
placid sleep, which composed his venerable features in such 
unearthly peace. 

Four days afterwards, the remains of Josiah Cleaves 
were quietly and decently interred beside those of his moth- 
er in Redburn churchyard. Six labourers, formerly in the 
employ of Andrew, volunteered to bear the body to its last 
resting-place ; and two or three respectable persons, in de- 
cent mourning, walked behind the aged solitary mourner. 
And beside him none other was akin to the dead, of those 
who stood that day about that untimely grave in Redbura 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 223 

churchyard ; yet was his the only face, which, as the affect- 
ing service proceeded, maintained unmoved composure, and 
his the only dry eyes that followed the descent of the coffin, 
as it was lowered into " the pit where all things are forgot- 
ten." 

Andrew Cleaves had unavoidably incurred a few trifling 
debts during the time of Josiah's imprisonment, and the 
consequent relaxation of his own laborious industry. To 
discharge those, and the burial expenses, he parted with his 
cow, and with his last freehold^ — that small old pew in the 
parish church, which had descended to him from his father, 
the heirloom of many generations, where he himself (a 
small urchin !) had stood aloft upon the seat between his 
father and his mother ; and when the old couple were laid 
side by side in the churchyard — where he had sat alone, 
upright against the high dark oak back, a thriving bachelor, 
" the cynosure of neighbouring eyes," and afterwards, a 
staid and serious bridegroom, with his matronly bride ; and 
then again, alone in impregnable widowhood ; and, last of 
all, a proud and happy father, with his little son lifted up 
beside him into the very place where he had stood between 
his own parents. Andrew Cleaves had said to himself, as 
he gazed upon the dead body of his son, that no after cir- 
cumstance of human life could affect him with the slightest 
emotion of joy or sorrow ; but when he finally made over to 
another the possession of his old pew, one pang of com- 
mingled feeling thrilled through his heart, and moistened 
the aged eyes that had looked tearlessly into his son's, 
grave » 



224 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIX. 



CHAPTER XIX, 

The next Sunday after the funeral, Andrew Cleaves was 
at church as usual, but not in his accustomed place. Many 
pew-doors opened to him, as he walked slowly and feebly 
up the aisle, and many a hand was put forth to the old 
man's arm, essaying to draw him in with kindly violence ; 
but gently disengaging himself and silently declining the 
proffered accommodations, he passed onwards, and took his 
seat near the communion-table, on the end of one of the 
benches appropriated to the parish poor ; and from that 
time forward, to the end of his days, Andrew Cleaves was 
to be seen twice every Sabbath-day in that same place, 
more dignified in his sorrow and his humility, and perhaps 
more inwardly at peace, than he had ever been when the 
world went well with him, and he counted himself a happy 
man. 

Andrew Cleaves was an old man when his great calamity 
befell him. He had already numbered seven years beyond 
the age of man — his threescore years and ten ; and though 
he bore up bravely during the time of trial, that time told 
afterwards tenfold in the account of nature, and he sank for 
a time almost into decrepit feebleness ; yet still the lonely 
creature crept about as usual, and was seen at his daily la- 
bour, and at church and market, and answered all greetings 
and kindly queries, with courteous thankfulness, and assu- 
rances that he was well — quite well, and wanted for noth- 
ing, and was content to " tarry the Lord's leisure." But 
it was easy to see he hoped soon to depart, and all who 
spoke of him said his time would not be long, "for the old 
man's strength was going." Nevertheless, it was God's 
pleasure to delay the summons, which could not but have 
been welcome, though it was awaited with submissive 
patience. Andrew Cleaves survived his son's death up- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 225 

Wards of nine years, and not only did his strong and sound 
constitution in great measure recover from the shock which 
for a time had prostrated its uncommon power, but his 
mind also settled into a state of such perfect peace, as at 
times almost brightened into cheerfulness ; and never be- 
fore had he tasted such pure enjoyment from the sight of 
the green earth — of the summer sky, and the sweet influ- 
ence of the balmy air. 

The old man would have been a welcome and respected 
guest by many a fireside in Redbum village ; but at his 
time of day, it was too late to acquire social habits. It is 
often easier to break the bondage of a heavy chain, than to 
disentangle the meshes of a few seemingly slight cords ; 
neither may the tree, which has been warped when a sap- 
ling, be made straight when its green branches are all gone, 
and the bare trunk left scarred and rifted on the heath. 

Andrew still dwelt companionless in his paternal cottage, 
and rarely entered under any other roof, except that of the 
House of God. But, towards the close of his life, he was 
more frequently drawn into intercourse with his fellow crea- 
tures, than at any former period of his existence. He had 
continued to support himself, for four years after his son's 
death, on the sole profits of his garden, and of a little poultry 
that fed about his cottage ; with which small merchandise 

he still performed his weekly journey to C market. 

But though the " green old age" of honest Greybeard still 
yielded good and willing service, it was plain to be seen 
that the crazy cart must soon drop to pieces, and many sus- 
pected that there was pinching want in Andrew's cottage, 
in lieu of the increasing comforts which should afford " a 
good soft pillow for the old grey head." And, thereupon, 
much kindly consultation took place among the magnates 
of the parish, how to assist and benefit the old man, 
without wounding his last lurking feeling of human pride — 
the pride of living by the honest labour of his own hands, 
unindebted to parochial or individual charity. An oppor- 
tunity soon presented itself for the furtherance of their be- 
nevolent purpose. The foot carrier, who had long travelled 
twice a week, to and fro, between C and Redburn, be- 



326 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIX. 

came disabled from continuing his office, the acceptance of 
which was immediately proposed to Andrew Cleaves, and 
that a new light cart should be provided for him by sub- 
scription among those to whom the regular carriage of 
packages larger than could be conveyed by a foot carrier, 
would prove a real accommodation. The old man did not 
long dehberate. He felt that he could usefully and faith- 
fully acquit himself of the proffered charge, and accepted it 
with unhesitating gratitude. But when there was further 
talk of purchasing for him a younger and more efficient 
steed than honest Greybeard, Andrew shook his head, in 
positive rejection, and said, smiling, " No, no, we must rub 
on together — the old fellow will do good service yet ; and 
who knows but he may take me to my last home ?" — And 
then, for a moment, his brow darkened with a passing sha- 
dow, for the thought of the last burden of mortality drawn 
by the old horse came vividly into his mind. 

The new cart was provided, the venerable carrier installed 
into his office, and for five whole years (his remaining span 
of life) he fulfilled his duties with characteristic faithfulness 
and exactitude, and almost with the physical energies of his 
youthful prime. Winter and summer — through frost and 
snow — and in the dog-day heat — through fair ways and foul 
— by dayhght and twilight — Andrew Cleaves's cart was to 
be seen nearly about the same place on Redburn Common, 
at, or near, five o'clock, on the afternoon of Tuesdays and 

Saturdays, on its return from C . And it was still 

drawn lustily along by the same old horse, looking sleek and 
glossy, and round, quartered like one of Wouverman's Flem- 
ings ; and when some one, willing to please the master, 
would now and then pat the sides of the faithful creature, and 
comment on his handsome appearance, the old man would 
smile with evident gratification, and say, " Ay, ay, I knew 
what stuff he was made of — we shall last out one another's 
time — never fear." 

So said Andrew Cleaves, towards the close of a long, hard 
winter ; when, though the snow-drifts that still lay in every 
shady place were not whiter than the once darkly dappled 
coat of old Greybeard, he showed little other sign of age, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 227 

except, indeed, the rather more dehberate pace in which his 
kind master indulged him. But though the tardy spring set 
in at last, mild, warm, and beautiful ; and though its reno- 
vating spirit seemed to infuse itself, like a renewal of youth- 
ful vigour, into the frame of the hale and hearty old man, it 

was observed that his periodical return from C became 

each time later and later ; and that, in spite of the young 
tender grass on which Greybeard fed at pleasure — and the 
abundance of bruised corn, and heartening mashes, with 
which he was tenderly pampered, the sides of the aged crea- 
ture grew lank and hollow, his fine glossy coat rough and 
dull, and that his well-set ears, and once erect and sprightly 
head, dropped low and heavily, as he toiled slowly homeward 
over the common. 

It was some evening in the first week of balmy June, that 
an inhabitant of Redburn, who expected a consignment by 
Andrew's cart, set out to meet the vehicle on its return from 

C . The man walked on and on, and no cart was seen 

approaching, and the gloaming was darkening apace, and 
still no Andrew. 

But just as uncomfortable surmises respecting the delay of 
the venerable carrier began to crowd into his neighbour's 
mind, the old man came in sight, not in his accustomed 
driving-seat, but walking by the, side of his aged steed, which 
still drew on the cart with its lightened load, but evidently 
with painful labour ; and when Andrew stopped to deliver 
out the required parcel, his neighbour remarked to him, that 
though he himself looked stout and well as usual, his good 
horse seemed drawing near the last of his journeys. 

" Maybe — maybe," gravely replied the old man, laying his 
arm tenderly across the neck of his aged servant, and look- 
ing in the creature's face, as it lifted and half turned round 
its head with seeming consciousness — " Maybe, master ; but 
who knows, after all, which may go first ? Please God, we 
may yet last out one another's time." 

But he himself looked well, and strong as ever, and talk- 
ed cheerfully all the rest of the way ; and that same eve- 
ning, as was customary with him, walked his rounds, to give 
account of his multifarious commissions. This was on the 



2S^d CHURCaYARDS.— CHAJP. XIX. 

evening of Saturday, and the next morning Andrew Cleaved 
was missed at church from his accustomed seat ; and no soul 
that looked towards the vacant place, but knew immediate- 
ly that the old man was either sick unto death, or that he 
had already "fallen asleep in Jesus." 

When divine service was over, many persons bent their 
steps towards the lonely cottage ; and soon the general ex- 
pectation (fear on such an occasion Would have been an ir- 
religious feeling) was fully verified. The cottage door was 
closed and locked, and not a lattice open, but prompt admis* 
sion was effected, and there the venerable inmate wag found 
sitting in his old high-backed chair, before the little claw- 
table, on which was a small glass of untasted ale, and an 
unlit pipe beside the open Bible. It seemed at first glance, 
as if the old man were reading — but it was not so. One 
hand, indeed. Was still spread upon the chapter before him, 
but his head had dropped down upon his breast, his eyes 
were closed, and he slept the last sleep of the righteous. 

Such were the village annals collected from different nar- 
rators, and at divers opportunities, during the better part of 
a long summer month, which time I employed, or as some 
would have it, idled away, in fishing the streams in the vi- 
cinity of Redburn, taking up my headquarters at the sign 
of the Jolly Miller. The substance of the story, and all its 
main facts, were, however, related to me by the loquacious 
landlady, on the first night of my sojourn undet her roof. 
And she wound up her narrative with further particulars, 
including the ghost, which had excited such extraordinary 
tumult in the hitherto quiet village. 

Andrew Cleaves had been laid at rest beside the graves 
of his wife and son, the day before my arrival. The burial 
charges were defrayed by the sale of that poor remnant of 
his household goods which yet remained in the cottage, its 
once-abundant plenishing having gone, piece by piece, du- 
ring the time of his greatest necessity. The old cottage it- 
self, and its small domain, fell in of course to its reversionary 
purchaser, the village butcher. And there was no man to 
say him nay, when he likewise appropriated to himself, as 
make-weights no doubt in the scale of the dilapidated build- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 229 

ing, its few living appurtenances — ^Andrew's favourite breed 
of milkwhite poultry, and his only, his still surviving servant, 
honest Greybeard. Yes, the poor old creature, fast droop- 
ing as he was, did indeed Idst out his master^s time, and ren- 
der him the latest service — for the old man was taken to his 
grave in his own cart, by his own aged servant — and that 
was the last task of the poor worn-out brute ; and when it 
was over, his new proprietor turned him loose at the church- 
yard gate into his own adjoining field, there to linger out 
the few intervening days, till that when he was destined to 
furnish a repast to the squire's hounds. 

The graves of the Cleaveses lay side by side under the 
churchyard wall, at that end of the cemetery exactly front- 
ing the entrance. The old man had been committed to the 
earth on the fourth day from that of his decease ; and, 
some hours after the funeral, a person came hurrying about 
nightfall into the taproom of the Jolly Miller, affirming, that 
in his way past the churchyard, having looked accidentally 
towards the new-made grave, at its further extremity, he 
had seen distinctly a white spectral shape arise out of the 
earth, at the head of the dark fresh mound, which strange 
appearance gradually increased in size and stature, till he 
was afraid to continue gazing, and ran off to communicate 
the awful intelligence. 

Some laughed at Hodge's story, some bullied, some quaked; 
but all clamoured and questioned, and finished by running 
off en masse towards the churchyard, headed by the bearer 
of wonderful tidings, whose courage being of a gregarious 
nature, became absolute valour with such comfortable back- 
ing. Yet did his pace slacken perceptibly as he approached 
the burial-ground, and his followers pressed less impatiently 
upon his heels ; and the whole phalanx, by that time wedged 
into close order, retrograded simultaneously, when Hodge 
stopped short with a theatrical start, and stretching forth 
his right arm, after the fashion of the Prince of Denmark, 
uttered not exactly the adjuration of the royal Dane, but an 
exclamation quite as electric to his excited followers. 

"There he goes, by gosh!" quoth Hodge, under his 
breath. 

20 



230 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIX. 

But all heard the awful words — and all were ready to 
make oath that, just as they were spoken, they saw some- 
thing tall, white, vapoury, spectral, sink down into the earth 
at the head of Andrew Cleaves's grave. Some went so far 
as to whisper of having caught a glimpse of horns and fiery 
eyes ; and they might have got on to hoofs and a long tail, 
had not the less imaginative elders rebuked such idle fanta- 
sies, and condemned the uncharitable inferences therefrom 
deducible. 

" For why should the Evil One, designated by their fears, 
be permitted to visit the last earthly resting-place of one 
whose faith, while living, had baffled his subtlest wiles, and 
whose immortal part was now, it was humbly to be hoped, 
beyond the influence of his power ?" 

But iheyt too— those sober witnesses — had seen something 
— ^had caught a momentary glance of the white figure as it 
sank into the earth ! and their long-drawn jaws, and solemn 
doubts, and qualified admission, and pious ejaculations, struck 
more awe to the hearts of the cowering group than the bold- 
ter asseverations of the first speakers. Certain it is, not one 
of the party proposed to enter the consecrated precincts, 
and take closer cognizance of the spot, to which all eyes 
were directed with intense eagerness. But they kept their 
ground of observation for a considerable time after the van- 
ishing of the phantom ; and though mysterious sounds and 
indistinct glimmerings were still rife in the heated imagin- 
ings of many, no further appearance was unanimously pro- 
nounced to have been visible during that night's watch ; 
and, by degrees, the gazers dispersed, to spread panic and 
conjecture through the village. No epidemic is more easily 
disseminated ; and by the next day's close, all Redburn 
mustered for the ghost-hunt — which formidable array it was 
my lot to encounter, when I first entered the straggling 
street in quest of lodging and entertainment at the village 
inn. More entertainment than I had reckoned on was, as I 
have shown, provided for me by my garrulous landlady ; 
and her village gossip had so well eked out the more substan- 
tial refreshment of her savoury fare, that time had stolen on 
unheeded amidst the unwonted quiet of her well-frequented 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 231 

house, and darkness had long succeeded the gloaming which 
lent me light to reach its hospitable shelter. And still the 
old lady had something more to tell, and I still listened with 
unwearied ear, when all at once the deep unnatural quiet of 
the " deserted village" was broken by a confused uproar, 
like the rushing of an approaching torrent, and in a moment 
the trampling of many feet and the clattering of many 
tongues, announced the nearness of the living torrent, which 
came pouring onward in " admired disorder," and pressing 
head over head, and shoulder against shoulder, into the 
kitchen of the Jolly Miller. And there were white faces 
and staring eyes, and chattering teeth, and " horrific hair," 
but no paralysis of tongues ; and, for a while, the confusion 
of Babel was nothing to that which mingled forty discordant 
voices, all trying to outpitch one another. 

At length, however, I obtained from mine host himself 
the sum and substance of the united discords. His profes- 
sional eye had been acute, even in the midst of the hurly- 
burly, to discern that a new and respectable-looking guest 
was located in his house ; and I was accordingly favoured 
with his account of the recent adventure. 

" They had watched," he said, " two good hours at the 
churchyard hatch, in full view of Andrew Cleaves's grave, 
the exact spot of which was discernible, even after perfect 
nightfall ! and they had taken every possible precaution to 
satisfy themselves before dark, that no living creature, 
Christian or brute, was lurking within the churchyard — 
that there was nothing within it but the green graves and 
the white tombstones, and the old yew-tree in the northeast 
angle. 

" Well, sir," said mine host, " we watched there, as I 
made mention, two mortal hours ; and though some fancied 
one thing, and some another, they were nothing but fancies 
— for nothing better nor worse than we ourselves was stir- 
ring all that time ; and I, for one, began to think we were 
making fools of ourselves, and had best sneak home quietly, 
and say nothing more about the matter. But just then, 
sir," quavered mine host, glancing fearfully round, and low- 
ering his tone to a whisper, " just then, sir ! we did see 



232 CHURCHYARDS.—CHAP. XIX* 

something. We see'd the tall white thing rise up out of the 
earth, right at the head of the old man's grave ; and then, 
sir, if you'll believe me, as I am a sinful man, it rose and 
rose, and spread, till it was as big and high as the gas-work 
tower — ^though, for shape, we could not make it much out 
—only the head of it seemed to shoot up in a kind of forked 
fashion ; and there must have been some sort of unnatural 
light about it, for my eyes got quite dazed and dizzy like, 
and there was a ringing in my ears ; and then — Lord, sir ! 
— while we were all looking quite steadfast, and standing 
as steady as a rock, sir .'-—quite cool and composed— the 
thing gives a kind of a heave up— so, sir !> — ^and down again ; 
and then there was a terrible noise, just as if the old church 
tower was tumbling about our ears^ — and then, we thought, 
it would be presumptuous to stay any longer, (for rashness 
is not courage, you know, sir,) and so we came back home 
again, sir, to talk the matter over quietly." 

But neither mine host nor his adherents were in a state to 
talk the matter over very quietly just then ; and all shrank 
back with unequivocal dismay, when I proposed to head 
them for a fresh enterprise — myself and two or three others, 
provided with lanterns, not to flare about the outskirts of the 
burying-ground, but to make strict search within its haunted 
precincts — even upon the very grave itself — of which they 
could not hear without a shudder. By degrees, however — • 
what with shaming their pusillanimity, and patting their 
courage, and plying them well with mine host's strong beer 
— ^I succeeded in enlisting a band of desperate heroes pre- 
pared to brave all dangers, and swearing to go with me 
through fire and water. And o£F we set at a good round 
pace, (for some sort of courage is apt to cool if it marches 
to slow time,) and so reached the churchyard hatch ; and 
dashing through, without a moment's pause, made straight 
towards the haunted grave. But when we had neared it by 
a few yards, my doughty heroes made a sudden stop, and I 
held out my lantern far and high, to throw forward its rays 
on the strange object which indisputably lay (a long white 
heap) on Andrew's grave. Just then I struck my foot 
against a stone, and one behind me stumbled over another 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 233 

great rough stone, like those piled together, without masonry, 
that formed the churchyard wall, close to which lay the three 
graves of the Cleaveses. 

" Oh, ho !" I cheeringly cried out to my trembling fol- 
lowers — " here has been a downfall ; but ghosts do not break 
down stone walls, my men." And on we went, stumbling 
over like obstacles, and five steps more brought us to the 
place of terrors ; and all the lanterns were held out, every 
neck poked forward, every eye full stretched — and all fear 
soon exchanged for loquacious wonder, and pitying excla- 
mation — for there, upon his master's grave, stretched out at 
full length upon its side, lay the skeleton carcass of Andrew's 
poor old horse. He had been turned into the butcher's field 
behind the churchyard, to await, as I have told, the leisure 
of the squire's hounds. There was a breach in the loose 
stone wall, exactly at the head of Andrew's grave, and whe- 
ther it was simply impatience of his new pasture, or whether 
the creature was really conscious that to the spot below that 
broken wall he had drawn the remains of his old master, 
certain it is he must have stationed himself in the gap when 
first observed by the frightened villagers ; and no doubt 
might have been seen there by daylight, had any one then 
bethought himself of looking beyond the grave toward the ad- 
joining enclosure. And it is equally certain, that on the 
memorable night of the catastrophe, the poor old animal 
having raised himself by his forelegs on the lowest part of 
the breach, the loose stones had given way under his hoofs, 
and falling forward with them, a helpless, heavy weight, he 
had breathed out the last feeble remnant of his almost ex- 
tinguished life, on the scarcely closed grave of his aged mas- 
ter, whose words were verified almost to the letter — " We 
shall last out one another's time." 



20* 



234 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X3C. 



CHAPTER XX. 

THE GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 

Within a quarter of a mile of one of the most secluded 
sea-side hamlets on our western coast, stands its parish- 
church, a picturesque old building, on a most romantic 
site — the brow of a richly wooded cliff — the burial-ground 
forming a sort of table-land of rich sheltered verdure sur- 
rounded by noble elms, through the boles of which one 
may look down on the rolling ocean, so majestically con- 
trasting with its ever-restless billows the unbroken silence 
and undisturbed tranquillity which reign within that village 
of the dead. I visited the church and church-yard about 
sunset on a rich autumnal evening, when the very soul of 
repose and harmony, pervading earth, air, and sky, seemed 
to breathe over the holy ground a more holy consecration. 
There was not a cloud in heaven — not even one purple 
cloud in the whole flaming Occident, where the great glori- 
ous orb was slowly sinking into the waveless sea, whose 
mighty voice was hushed into a lulling and delicious mur- 
mur, as the long liquid ridges advanced and receded with 
caressing gentleness on the broad silver sands. As I en- 
tered the lofty burying-ground, its western screen of noble 
elms stood magnificently dark, in undefined massiness, be- 
tween me and the glowing sunset ; but the golden glory 
stole in long lines of light through the arches of that living 
colonnade, burnishing the edges of many a tombstone, its 
quaint tracery of cross-bones, skull, and hour-glass, and 
brightening many a nameless turfen heap, as if typical of 
the robes of light reserved in heaven, even for the lowly 
righteous, who have passed away from earth unhonoured 
and unknown. 

The church itself stood in deep shadow, except that here 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 235 

and there a glittering beam darting through some chink in 
the dark foliage, kindled the diamond panes of a long nar- 
row window, or gilded the edge of an abutment, or the inner 
groining of the fine old porch, and on one particular spot, (a 
thickly ivied gable,) one golden ray streamed like an index, 
immediately attracting my attention to the object on which 
it centred, a small oval monumental tablet, wholly unorna- 
mented, but well proportioned, of the purest white marble, 
and to my taste strikingly elegant, from that extreme sim- 
plicity, and the singularly beautiful effect of contrast af- 
forded by its rich frame-work of dark green ivy. Of the 
latter, not a vagrant tendril had been suffered to encroach 
over the edge of the small tablet, which had been affixed to 
the wall through a space just cleared to receive it in the 
verdant arras ; and I found, on a nearer scrutiny, that lit- 
tle more than a twelvemonth had elapsed since the insertion 
of that monumental record. The inscription was still 
sharp and clear, as if fresh from the chisel, and its purport 
was framed thus remarkably : — 

TO THE MEMORY OF 

MILLICENT ABOYNE, 

DAUGHTER AND ONLY CHILD OF THE BRAVE 

COLONEL ABOYNE, 

THIS TABLET IS INSCRIBED BY HER FAITHFUL SERVANT* 

SHE DIED AUGUST IOtH, I , 

IN THE 30tH year OF HER AGE, 
OF A BROKEN HEART. 

I cannot tell how long I had been gazing on that strange- 
ly touching record, when the sound of an approaching foot- 
step caused me to look round, and I saw advancing towards 
me an old grey-headed man, bearing in one hand a bunch 
of ponderous keys, his insignia of office, for he was no other 
than the parish-clerk, who, from his cottage window, which 
opened into the churchyard, having observed the entrance 
of a stranger within its sacred precincts, and the apparent 
interest and curiosity with which I had been surveying the 
exterior of the church, came courteously forward, (doubtless 



236 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

not without some latent view to "a consideration,'''') proffer- 
ing admittance to the interior of the venerable edifice, and 
his services as cicerone ; and a far more agreeable one he 
proved than many a pompous guardian of more magnificent 
temples ; and far more pleasingly and profitably I spent 
that evening hour, within the comparatively humble walls 
of the village church, listening to the simple annals of that 
aged chronicler, than I have passed various portions of time 
among the proud tombs of the mighty dead, rich in the 
splendour of architectural ornament and imperishable memo- 
ries, over which all the yearnings of the heart to meditate 
in solemn silence are effectually marred, by the intrusive 
chatter of the magpie hireling who follows from tomb to 
tomb— from chapel to chapel, with voluble impertinence. 

My rustic cicerone was very differently qualified ; and as 
he told me, in brief and simple phrase, the history of the few 
monuments — of some, from personal recollection of the in- 
dividuals to whose memories they were inscribed — each 
story acquired additional interest from the venerable aspect 
of the aged historian, and whose bald uncovered head, thinly 
encircled by a few white silky locks, the sunbeams darting 
through some panes of amber-tinted glass in the great west 
window, shed a halo of golden glory. The deep shadows 
of evening had almost blended into profound obscurity, ere 
I left the church, and bade farewell to my venerable guide ; 
but from him I did not separate, ere I had in some degree 
satisfied my curiosity respecting that small tablet on the ivy 
wall, on which I was gazing so intently when he courteously 
accosted me. The old man shook his head in reply to my 
first query and accompanying remark on the singularity of 
the inscription. 

"Ah, sir!" said he, "that was a sad business — I am 
afraid some folks have much to answer for. But God only 
knows all hearts." And then he told me just so much of 
the story of that poor lady, whose fate was so affectingly 
recorded, as served to enhance my pleasure at hearing that 
I might obtain the full gratification of my curiosity, by in- 
troducing myself to the faithful old servant who had caused 



GRAViJ OF fHE BROKEN HEART. 237 

the erection of that singular memorial, who still lingered in 
the vicinity of a spot to her so sacred, and was never so 
happy as when encouraged by some attentive and sympa- 
thizing hearer, to talk of " days lang-syne ;" — of the depart- 
ed glory of her master's house ; and above all, of that be- 
loved being, whose motherless infancy she had fostered 
with all the doting fondness of an Irish nurse, and whose 
fortunes she had followed through good and through evil, 
even unto the death, with that devoted attachment so cha- 
racteristic of her class and country. 

That very evening, the sweet hour of gloaming witnessed 
the beginning of my acquaintance with Nora Carthy, and 
two hours later, when the uprisen moon showered down its 
full radiance on the jasmine-covered walls of her low white 
cottage, I was sitting with my new friend on the bench be- 
side her own door, still listening with unflagging interest to 
her " thick-coming" recollections, and even to the fondly 
unconscious repetitions poured out from the fulness of long 
pent-up feehngs. 

Many were the after visits I paid to Nora's cottage, and 
more than once I stood beside the faithful creature on the 
churchyard sod, under that small marble tablet in the ivy 
wall ; and I shall not easily forget the speechless intensity 
with which she gazed upon its aflTecting record, nor the 
after burst of bitter feelings, when pointing to the green 
grave beneath, she passionately exclaimed — "And there 
she lies low — the flower of the world ! — ^laid there by a 
broken heart!" 

I would not venture to relate the somewhat uneventful^ 
but not uninteresting story of Millicent Aboyne, exactly as 
I heard it from the faithful Nora, whose characteristic en- 
thusiasm, and strong prejudices, combined with her devoted 
aflfection for the deceased lady, made it almost impossible 
that she should afford a fair statement of the painful cir- 
cumstances, which, in her firm opinion, had consigned the 
unfortunate Miss Aboyne to an untimely grave. But I had 
opportunities of comparing poor Nora's relation with infor- 
mation derived from less questionable sources, and so ga- 



238 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

thered together, with impartial selection, the details which 
I shall now attempt to arrange, in memory of my visit to 
Sea Vale churchyard. 

The father of Millicent Aboyne was a descendant of 
one of the most ancient Milesian families, whose genealo- 
gy, had I listened to Nora, I might have given in uninter- 
rupted succession from Brian Boru. But if the royal blood 
had flowed uncontaminated from generation to generation 
into the veins of late posterity, a very inconsiderable por- 
tion of the royal treasure had been transmitted along with 
it, and Colonel Aboyne, the last lineal descendant, had still 
to carve out his fortune with his sword, when the French 
Revolution dissolved the Irish Brigade in the service of 
France, as an officer of which corps, and a most accom- 
plished gentleman, he had already been flatteringly distin- 
guished at the Court of the Tuileries. 

To Ireland, where the young soldier still possessed a few 
acres of bog, and the shell of an old tower — the wreck of 
bygone prosperity — he betook himself on the first over- 
throw of his Gallic fortunes, with the intention of resuming 
his military career, as soon as circumstances should permit, 
in the English service. But a chain of causes, which I 
shall not take upon me to detail, combined to procrastinate 
the execution of this purpose, and, at length, so fatally in- 
fluenced the enthusiastic and high-spirited character of the 
young soldier, that, without having calculated the conse- 
quences of his unguarded zeal in what he considered the 
cause of the oppressed — far less having contemplated actual 
rebellion — he found himself deeply involved in the schemes 
of desperate men, and, finally, sharing with them the penal- 
ties of imprisonment, and probably approaching condemna- 
tion. The horrors of his fate were bitterly aggravated by 
anxiety for a beloved wife, to whom he had been lately uni- 
ted, whose very existence seemed bound up with his own — 
for he had married her a destitute and friendless English 
orphan — a stranger in a strange land afiectingly cast upon 
his compassionate protection, in her hour of extreme neces- 
sity. For her sake life was precious to him on any terms 
not incompatible with a soldier's honour; and he ventured 



GRAVE OF tHE BROKEN HEART, 23^ 

on a plan of escape so hazardous, that none but desperate 
circumstances could have made it other than an act of mad- 
ness. It fatally miscarried— for in the act of lowering him- 
self from a wall of immense height, the frail cord to which he 
trusted failed him, and he was precipitated to the ground — 
retaken — and reconveyed to his dungeon Vv^ith a fractured 
arm and thigh, and such other material injuries, as made it 
more than doubtful whether his life would be prolonged to 
pay the probably impending forfeiture. He was, however, 
spared by divine mercy, and by judicial lenity. 

Colonel Aboyne was proved to have been almost unwit- 
tingly involved in the guilt of great offenders, from whom 
justice having exacted the dread penalty, was content to 
relax from her rigorous demands, in favour of the compara- 
tively innocent ; and the almost hopeless prisoner was re- 
stored to liberty, and to his young, devoted wife, too blest to 
receive him back, as it were, from the confines of the grave, 
though he returned to her, and to their ruinous home — the 
wreck — the shadow of his former self, with a frame and 
constitution irreparably injured by the fatal consequences of 
his late enterprize. The heavy charges of his trial had 
compelled him to mortgage his small patrimony, on which 
(thus burdened) it became impossible for him to maintain 
even his moderate establishment. Ireland was become dis- 
tasteful to him ; and the languishing health of Mrs. Aboyne 
requiring a milder climate than that of their northern resi- 
dence, he lent a not unwilling ear to her timidly expressed 
longing once more to breathe the balmy air of her native 
Devonshire ; and disposing (not without a pang) of Castle 
Aboyne, and every rood of his diminished heritage, with 
the small sum thus realized he departed for England,; and 
with his gentle wife, and two faithful servants — Nora Carthy 
and her husband — was shortly established in a small dwell- 
ing at Sidmouth. 

More than one season of pensive tranquillity rather than 
of positive happiness, was permitted them in that beautiful 
retreat ; but the fatal blow had been long struck to the 
heart of Mrs. Aboyne, and her life, though sinking by al- 
most imperceptible degrees, was not to be prolonged beyond 



240 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XX. 

the sixth summer of their residence in England. During 
that interval she had given birth to two children. One 
only, a little girl, in her fifth year, survived her mother, to 
be the comfort of her afflicted father, and, as she grew up, 
the support and blessing of his infirm and solitary state. 
The faithful Nora had lost her only child about the time of 
the young Millicent's birth, and she had taken the latter to 
her bosom, with all the tenderness of a mother, Mrs. Aboyne 
being unable to nurse her own infant. 

Nora was widowed also, before her mistress's death, so 
that her whole stock of warm affections centered in her 
orphan nursling, and in the master, whose fortunes she had 
followed through good and through evil. 

The residence of Sidmouth becoming distasteful to Colo- 
nel Aboyne, after the death of his beloved companion, he 
removed, with his little family, to a more secluded spot on 
the same western coast, the obscure village of Sea Vale, 
where motives of economy, as well as choice, induced him 
finally to fix his permanent abode. 

Uneventful, but not unblessed, flowed on the existence 
of the inmates of Sea Vale Cottage, till the young Millicent 
was grown up into womanhood ; in the opinion of her do- 
ting father, as fair and perfect a creature as was ever formed 
in the imperfection of mortal nature, and in that of Nora 
Carthy, something still more faultless — an earthly angel ! 
— the object of her idol worship, though the warm-hearted 
Irishwoman, having been brought up by her mistress, Colo- 
nel Aboyne's mother, in the Protestant communion, pro- 
fessed to abjure all Popish abominations. 

It should have been mentioned earlier in this little narra- 
tive, that the parents of Colonel Aboyne were of a divided 
faith, and that he himself — though educated in his father's te- 
nets — those of the Roman Catholic Church — he had received 
from his mother's early example, and restricted influence, 
such a bias in favour of the Reformed religion, as, in after 
time, when he became the inhabitant of a Protestant coun- 
try, the husband of a wife of that persuasion, matured into 
sincere belief in that faith which had been her support in 
the hour of death, and, amid the pangs of separation, the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 241 

mutual pledge of future reunion. It is almost needless to 
add that the little Millicent was brought up in the belief 
which had become that of both her parents ; but the circum- 
stances of Colonel Aboyne had precluded all possibility of 
giving her any other advantages of education, beyond those 
in his own power to impart. Happily his capabilities of tui- 
tion extended to the conferring of every thing really valua- 
ble, and even beyond those attainments to many of the orna- 
mental acquirements, which, like the capital of a Corinthian 
pillar, so gracefully surmount the more solid substructure. 

The mind of Millicent Aboyne was, therefore, not only 
stored with sacred knowledge and useful information, but 
she could read Italian and French with perfect facility, 
drew landscapes and flowers with more taste and truth than 
is ever evinced by half the spoiled children of fortune, on 
whom vast sums have been lavished to entitle them to daub 
hot-pressed card-board with likenesses of things that never 
existed in " heaven above or in the earth beneath," and 
even acquired so much skill in instrumental music, (to ac- 
company a naturally sweet and flexible voice,) as could be 
taught by her father's crippled hand on an old Spanish gui- 
tar, the chords of which he had touched in his youth with such 
perfect execution, as in unison with vocal powers of uncom- 
mon richness, had won for the gay and handsome soldier 
many a sweet smile and admiring glance from the circle of 
court beauties, of which Marie Antoinette was the eclipsing 
cynosure. Many an ear which shrinks fatigued and unedi- 
fied from astounding hravuras and scientific hors d^ceuvres, 
running matches against time with scampering accompani- 
ments on grand pianos, might have drunk in delightedly 
the sweet and perfect melody of two blended voices, har- 
monizing with now and then a harp-Hke chord, which often 
sounded at nightfall from within the small low parlour of Sea 
Vale Cottage, or from the honeysuckle arbour in its little 
garden, when the warm summer evenings drew thither the 
father and his child, with the tea-table, and Millicent's 
work-basket, the Colonel's old guitar, and his still treasured 
" Cahier des Romances Nouvelles Imprimis a Paris I'an 
mil-sept cents quatrevingt douze." But though this vener- 
21 



242 CHURCHYARDS.'— CHAP. XX» 

able recueil was prized by Colonel Aboyne as a relic of the 
pleasurable days of youthful vanity— -when hope was high, 
and " the world all before him where to choose"- — and though 
visions of " long-faded glories" passed before his eyes as 
they dwelt on the familiar music, and he hummed uncon- 
sciously the old favourite airs, he took far deeper delight in 
teaching Millicent the songs of his own native land, and in 
mingling his voice with hers, in those wild and thrilling 
harmonies. In one of those — the touching Gramachree — 
the united strains were sweetly swelling, when late in the 
twilight of a summer evening a solitary stranger strolled 
down the shady green lane which bounded Colonel Aboyne's 
garden, and passed close behind the honeysuckle arbour. 
It was not in nature — not in that stranger's nature— to pass 
onward unheedful of those melodious sounds which poured 
forth so unexpectedly as it were in his very path ; and there 
he lingered (for strain succeeded strain) till the bright moon 
climbed high in heaven, and the unseen harmonists, desist- 
ing from their vocal labours, began to converse with each 
other in such sweet tones of affectionate familiarity as would 
have riveted the listener's attention even more forcibly than 
the preceding music, had he not started away from even a 
momentary indulgence of dishonourable curiosity. His 
forbearance was not unaccompanied, however, by views of 
ultimate compensation ; and no later than the following 
morning, the village doctor, a worthy and sensible man, 
ever a welcome visitant at Sea Vale Cottage, was accom- 
panied, in his early visit to its inmates, by a stranger of 
prepossessing appearance, whom he introduced to Colonel 
and Miss Aboyne as the Rev. Mr. Vernon, the new curate 
of Sea Vale. 

Horace Vernon was one of many children, the orphans of 
a deceased clergyman ; and his widowed mother had strained 
her overburdened means to the very uttermost to continue 
him at the university for two years after his father's sudden 
and untimely death. 

Beyond that important period she was powerless to assist 
him ; and when he was so fortunate as to obtain the de- 
sirable curacy of Sea Vale, on entering into holy orders, her 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN ttEARf . 24S 

maternal anxieties, so far relieved on his account, were na- 
turally engrossed by the more pressing claims of her young- 
er children. Horace was well content with his allotted sta- 
tion. From his earliest recollection, accustomed to retire- 
ment, and to the strict, though respectable frugality of his 
father's household, and subjected, during the greater part of 
his college life, to the innumerable privations and mortifi- 
cations inseparable from the station of a poor scholar among 
the wealthy and the prodigal, he had acquired no habits or 
ideas inimical to the hfe of obscure usefulness apparently 
designed for him. There had never been any rational pros- 
pect of his obtaining church preferment, unless he should 
fag his way up the clerical ladder by college tutorship, or 
private connexions otherwise formed at the university ; and 
this course he might have pursued successfully, had his 
father lived to continue him at college, and to excite him 
to the necessary exertions. But his was not an energetic 
character : it was amiable, affectionate, and feeling — en- 
dowed with no inconsiderable share of talent, much refined 
and elegant taste, and a sincere desire of acting up to every 
moral and religious principle. Add to this a very hand- 
some person and engaging address, a little leaven of vanity, 
and a too great liability to be influenced, even against his 
better judgment, by the graceful and showy, in opposition 
to more solid but less attractive qualities, and the sketch of 
Horace Vernon's character will be faithful as a mere out- 
line. This little history affords no scope for Flemish 
painting. 

So constituted and endowed, the young curate settled 
himself very contentedly at Sea Vale, and was not long in 
making a most favourable impression on all classes through- 
out the parish. He was unaffectedly earnest in his pulpit 
duties, and not less anxious to fulfil all others annexed to 
his pastoral charge. And he did fulfil them very respecta- 
bly, and so as to give almost general satisfaction ; though, 
it must be confessed, not without occasionally yielding, and 
often doing violence, to certain feelings of morbid refine- 
ment, which revolted with sickening disgust from many of 
those scenes of human misery which must come under the 



!S44 CHURCHYARDS. CHAt. XX, 

eye of the zealous minister, and from which the faithful fol- 
lower of Him who "went about doing good," will not 
shrink back with fastidious weakness. 

Exactly twelve months from that sweet summer evening 
when Horace Vernon was arrested in his first stroll round 
the village, thenceforth to be his home, by the plaintive air 
of " Gramachree," breathed in vocal unison from behind 
the high holly hedge which separated him from Colonel 
Aboyne's garden — exactly a twelvemonth from that well- 
remembered evening — -the young curate was seated in the 
arbour within that holly hedge, and his voice, in lieu of her 
father's, was mingling with that of Millicent Aboyne in the 
same touching harmony, while her hand lightly swept the 
chords of the old guitar ; and Colonel Aboyne, reclining 
comfortably in his large arm-chair, the " Cahier de Roman- 
ces Nouvelles" lying on his cushioned footstool, gazed with 
tender complacency on the twain, thenceforth to be insepa- 
rably united in his affections — for his Millicent was the 
affianced wife of Horace Vernon. 

Such had been the very natural, the almost inevitable re- 
sult of an acquaintance and intimacy formed between two 
amiable and attractive young persons, brought perpetually 
together under such circumstances as characterized the in- 
tercourse of Horace Vernon and Millicent Aboyne. Had 
they become acquainted in the concourse of the world, or 
even been thrown together in a circle rather more diversified 
than that small group which constituted their world at Sea 
Vale, it is possible, nay even probable, that neither would 
have conceived for the other a warmer sentiment than kind- 
ness and friendly interest, for in many points they differed 
essentially ; and Millicent, more than two years older than 
Vernon, gentle and serious almost to pensiveness, elegant 
and pleasing in person rather than strikingly beautiful, and 
characterized by peculiar diffidence and simplicity of man- 
ner, would hardly have been distinguished among the more 
youthful, the more brilliant, the more showily accomplished, 
by one so peculiarly liable as was Horace Vernon, to be 
captivated by those graces which excite most general admi- 
ration. 



•i 



ORAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 245 

But he had never mixed in general society — had never, 
in the small circle of his connexions and acquaintance, seen 
any thing half so fair, so elegant and attractive, as the sweet 
Millicent. The high-bred manners of Colonel Aboyne were 
also delightful to his really refined taste ; and the kind hos- 
pitality with which he was ever welcomed at Sea Vale Cot- 
tage, won on his best affections, while the tastes and pur-- 
suits of its inmates awakened his warmest sympathies. No 
wonder that, under such circumstances, Horace should at- 
tach himself devotedly to Miss Aboyne, nor that she, whose 
intercourse with the world had been even more limited than 
her lover's, should return his affection with the warmth and 
truth of a first and perfect tenderness, without questioning 
with herself whether the amiable and engaging qualities 
which had won her unpractised heart, were built upon that 
stable groundwork which formed the basis of her own gentle 
and diffident character. Essentially requisite it was to the 
present peace and future happiness of Horace and Millicent, 
that the virtues of patience and stability should be among 
their leading characteristics — for prudence, or rather neces- 
sity, deferred to a distant period their hope of being united. 



21' 



246 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXI. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

^ It was not indeed till the twelfth month of their acquain- 
tance that Vernon had ventured to declare to Colonel Aboyne 
his attachment to his daughter, and to ask his parental sanc- 
tion to their future union. To this step he had been em- 
boldened by the promise of a small living from an old friend 
and college pupil of his deceased father ; and the present 
incumbent being far advanced in years, there was a rational 
prospect of Vernon's becoming, at no remote period, master 
of such a moderate competence as might enable him to mar- 
ry, without subjecting the object of his affections to the 
miseries of genteel poverty. 

Colonel Aboyne, who had become warmly attached to 
Horace, was well content to accept his proposals for that 
darling daughter, the thought of whose friendless and well- 
nigh destitute condition, in the event of her becoming an 
orphan, not only banished sleep too often from his pillow, 
but wrapped him in many a fit of deep and sad abstraction, 
while listening — apparently listening — to the sweet music 
of her silvery voice, or sitting with her at the social board, 
where she " gaily prest and smiled," unconscious of the feel- 
ings she inspired. His consent was therefore cordially and 
joyfully yielded ; and to Horace and MilHcent, the state of 
sanctioned and untroubled happiness which succeeded their 
betrothment, seemed for a time so near the perfection of 
earthly felicity, that even he (the more impassioned, but not 
more devoted, of the twain) contemplated, with tolerable 
equanimity, the possible intervention of the two or three 
years (a very reasonable allowance of life to the old incum- 
bent) between his present condition of probationary bliss, 
and the union which was to render it complete. Almost 
domesticated with Colonel Aboyne and his daughter, to the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 247 

former he looked up with filial affection and respect ; and 
his more tender and intimate association with Millicent's 
finely-constituted mind, insensibly led to the happiest results 
in his own character, which gradually settled into a steadi- 
ness of pursuit and principle well befitting his sacred pro- 
fession, and holding out the fairest promise of wedded hap- 
piness to his aflSanced wife, who already went hand in hand 
with her destined partner in all the sweet and holy charities 
constituting so essential a portion of pastoral duty. Never, 
perhaps — allowing for the alloy which must temper all earth- 
ly happiness — were assembled happier persons than the three 
sitting together, as lately described, under the honeysuckle 
arbour in Colonel Aboyne's garden, in the warm twilight of 
that sweet summer evening. 

Horace and Millicent had returned from a long ramble, 
and many benevolent visits among the more distant cotta- 
gers of their extensive parish. They had felt that " where 
the eye saw, it blessed them ;" and the tender and serious 
heart of Millicent, in particular, overflowed with that bliss- 
ful conviction, and with the delightful assurance, that her 
heavenly^ as well as her earthly parent, did indeed sanction 
her intended union, and that her lot, and that of her chosen 
partner, cast as it was in the quiet vale of sweet retirement 
and safe mediocrity, where, nevertheless, opportunities of 
doing good would be abundantly afforded, was one so pecu- 
liarly favoured, that while she thought thereon tears swelled 
into her dove-like eyes, and she faltered out something of 
her feehngs (for what tongue could speak them fluently ?) to 
him on whose arm she leaned in tender and perfect confi- 
dence. So time passed on with the betrothed lovers, ac- 
companied in its progress by all of pleasantness and enjoy- 
ment that could compensate for protracted expectation. 
And on, and on it passed — still pleasantly — still happily, on 
the whole, but to a length of probation so little anticipated 
by Vernon — so unchangeable as to any immediate prospect 
of termination — that something of the sickness of hope de- 
ferred began to steal into his heart, and now and then be- 
trayed itself, even to Millicent, by a fretful tone or word, or 



248 cHcmcHTARDs. — CHAP. xxr. 

a look of languor and sullenness, even in the midst of occu- 
pations and interests, which to her had lost nothing of their 
soothing and salutary influence. 

A year — two — three — four years — (in truth, an awful 
amount in the sum of human life !) — passed on, at first 
swiftly and happily, then with more tedious pace, and at 
last heavily, and sometimes sadly, at Sea Vale Cottage. 
Still existing- circumstances were precisely the same with 
all parties, as when^ four summers back, they felt themselves 
the happiest and most contented of human beings. But as 
years crept on with Colonel Aboyne, his anxiety to see his 
child securely established became naturally greater, and he 
could not but occasionally observe and lament that though 
Vernon's attachment to Millicent suffered no apparent di- 
minution, feelings of despondency and irritability were 
growing fast upon his character, where they might acquire 
a fatal influence not to be counteracted hereafter by the 
tardy operation of happier circumstances. And Millicent ! 
she was too well aware, even more so than her father, of 
the morbid change which was effecting in her lover's mind, 
composed as it was by nature of gay and happy elements. 
Poor Millicent ! — how many thorns had already sprung up 
in that peaceful path, which but so lately she had accounted 
peculiarly favoured ! Vernon's affection for her, though 
less ardently demonstrated than when they first exchanged 
their plighted troth, she verily believed to be entire and sin- 
cere as in those halcyon days ; and her feelings towards 
him had but matured into deeper and more holy tenderness 
— entire and self-devoting, such as only woman's heart can 
cherish — not blind to the imperfections of the beloved ob- 
ject, though sweetly extenuating and excusing them with 
unconscious ingenuity. Miss Aboyne could not but observe 
also, that the broad open brow of her dear father was more 
frequently contracted with deep and open lines than she 
had ever yet seen imprinted there ; and she fancied, too, (it 
might be only fancy,) that there was a perceptible change 
in his whole person and deportment, as if Time were hurry- 
ing him on with more hasty strides than the imperceptibly 
downward pace of natural decline. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 249 

Millicent's tender apprehensions were not wholly ground- 
less : Colonel Aboyne's constitution, impaired by former 
severe suffering, had of late felt the pernicious influence 
of increased mental disquietude, and again, the physical 
ailment reacting on the moral, brought on a train of those 
nervous miseries scarcely to be repelled by any effort of 
reason and self-control, even when perfectly imaginary ; 
and unhappily there was too much reason for Colonel 
Aboyne's uneasiness. He persuaded himself the hour 
was fast approaching which would make his daughter not 
only a friendless, but almost a destitute orphan, her sole 
inheritance comprising the small cottage they inhabited, 
and a sum of money scarce amounting to hundreds, 
though the accumulated whole of his small annual sav- 
ings, religiously hoarded, with whatever sacrifice of his 
own comforts, since the hour of his darling's birth. The 
circumstances of her engagement to Horace Vernon were 
such as would also render her situation one of greater diffi- 
culty, if the period was still to be deferred when she might 
be taken from a father's to a husband's home ; and while 
revolving all these perplexities in his sleepless and solitary 
hours. Colonel Aboyne was almost inclined to yield to the 
frequently impatient proposals of Horace for his immediate 
union with Millicent ; and that, leaving fearlessly to Provi- 
dence all care for the future, they might form, for the pre- 
sent, one humble and contented family, under the peaceful 
roof of Sea Vale Cottage. But Colonel Aboyne was too 
well aware of the distresses which might tread close on such 
a measure to sanction it, except as one of imperious neces- 
sity ; and at length, after long and harassing reflection, he 
determined on the execution of a project, to which nothing 
less than overpowering anxiety for his beloved child could 
have reconciled his high spirit and fastidious feelings. It 
was no less an enterprise (great indeed to the long-secluded 
valetudinarian) than to revisit the land of his birth — the 
home of his forefathers, in the forlorn hope of recovering 
from a distant kinsman the amount of a pecuniary loan, 
lent in the generous confidence of unsuspicious youth, 
without further security than the word of a friend, which 



250 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXI, 

sacred pledge had not however been redeemed, on Colonel 
Aboyne's written application, soon after his first establish- 
ment in England ; and, high-spirited as he was, no person- 
al consideration could have compelled a second remon- 
strance. But for his child ! — his child ! — ^what sacrifice 
would he not make ! what difficulties would he not encoun- 
' ter ! His resolve was made, declared, and speedily acted 
upon, in spite of the tender dissuasions of Millicent, and the 
feinter opposition of Vernon. New vigour seemed granted 
to him for the prosecution of his arduous undertakings ; 
and cheerfolly reassuring his anxious and drooping child, he 
firmly negatived her tender petition to accompany him to 
Ireland, on the reasonable grounds that it would not only 
increase their embarrassments if he failed in the object of 
his expedition, but at all events protract his absence from 
Sea Vale. 

The day was fixed for Colonel Aboyne's departure, and 
the preceding evening was the saddest ever spent together 
by the father and daughter in that dear cottage which had 
been so long the scene of their domestic happiness, Au» 
tumn was somewhat advanced, but the glorious light of a 
cloudless harvest-moon shone full into the little parlour 
casement, near which sat together the parent and the child, 
side by side, her hand within her father's — and they were 
both silent. Only, when Colonel Aboyne fondly kissed the 
pale soft cheek which rested on his shoulder, and the full 
closed eyelids, with their long lashes trembling through 
tears in the moonbeam, poor Millicent turned her face in- 
ward on her father's bosom, and the suppressed grief half- 
vented itself in deep short sobs. 

" Be of good comfort, dearest !" said her father, master- 
ing his own emotion—" Cheer up, my Milly ! Remember 
I am going to leave you but for a short — a very short time. 
You and I have spoiled each other, Milly ! We have been 
too much together ; I should have sent my darling some- 
times away from me, to have accustomed her to live with> 
out her old father— -and there is one, Milly ! who, if I were 

gone" -4)ut poor Milly's thick-coming sobs told him those 

were not words of comfort ; and after a minute's silence, to 



eUAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 251 

©aim the tremor in his own voice, he resumed, in freer ac- 
cents — " Look up, Milly ! at that bright full moon — before 
it is dwindled to a silver thread, you may hear that I am 
on my way home again ; and look up, Milly ! and see how 
gloriously it shines upon us — we will for once believe in 
omens, and take its bright promise for"— — Millicent looked 
up just as her father stopped so abruptly — a huge black bar 
was drawn across the star of promise ; and in a few seconds, 
while father and daughter were still gazing earnestly up- 
wards, the beautiful luminary was totally eclipsed. 

The next morning found Millicent and her faithful Nora 
sole inhabitants of Sea Vale Cottage. Vernon had accom- 
panied Colonel Aboyne to the place of embarkation — an 
opportunity of confidential intercourse with his future son- 
in-law gladly embraced by the anxious traveller. To Ver- 
non he spoke unreservedly of his own internal conviction, 
that in spite o£ that present renovation, which he gratefully 
acknowledged as providentially granted for the prosecution 
of his immediate purpose, the termination of his earthly so- 
journ was at no great distance. He spoke of her who 
would then be a destitute orphan, and he accepted, as so- 
lemnly as it was offered, Horace Vernon's voluntary pro- 
mise, in case of an unfavourable issue to his present under- 
taking, and of life not being spared him to return to Sea 
Vale, then to take to himself his affianced wife so soon as 
he could win her consent to accompany him to the altar — 
and taking up his abode with her under that lowly roof, 
which would be wellnigh all the poor Millicent's portion, 
resolve for her sake cheerfully to contend with present — 
even protracted difficulties — and so await (patiently trust- 
ing in Providence) those better days they were reasonably 
encouraged to look forward to. It was also settled between 
the friends, that, with Millicent's consent, the same arrange- 
ment should take place soon after Colonel Aboyne's return 
from Ireland, were that return permitted, though unblessed 
by a favourable result to the business which impelled him 
thither. 

So having spoken, and confided to each other their mu- 
tual wishes and anxieties, the old man and the young one, 



252 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXI* 

the almost father and son, parted at the place of embarka-' 
tion, with a fervent blessing and a short farewell — and from 
Colonel Aboyne, as he stepped into the boat, a look to Ver- 
non, and an emphatic pressm'e of the hand, which, more 
touchingly than language, commended the absent Millicent 
to her lover's protection. 

If soberizing time and protracted expectation had abated 
somewhat of Vernon's first enthusiastic passion, his feelings 
for Millicent were still those of sincere and tender interest; 
and with all the affecting circumstances of his late parting 
with her father fresh in his recollection, it was with a revi- 
val of even more than former tenderness that he met her on 
his return at the little garden-gate before the cottage, of 
which she was now the sole sad occupant. Deep and fer- 
vent was at that moment his unuttered vow to be indeed 
friend, father, protector, husband — every thing to the dear 
and gentle being who might so soon be dependent on him 
for her all of earthly comfort. Few words passed between 
them at their first greeting. Vernon hastened to answer 
Millicent's enquiring look with an assurance that all was 
well with her dear father when they parted ; and then the 
two entered the cottage together, and seated themselves in 
the small bay window, neither, however, occupying the 
large arm-chair, which stood with its cushioned footstool in 
the acc\istomed place. Both looked towards it, and Ver- 
non, perceiving the direction of Millicent's tearful glance, 
and well comprehending the subject of her fond solicitude, 
exerted himself to comfort and reassure her, till by degrees 
he lured her into the indulgence of more cheerful thoughts 
and happier expectations. But as he looked earnestly in 
her mild fair face, he was struck with the increased trans- 
parency of a complexion, always peculiarly delicate, but 
now beautiful with an almost fearful beauty ; for the natu- 
rally pale, though clear and healthful cheek, now bloomed 
with a spot of the brightest carnation ; and quickly glan- 
cing at the hand he held within his own, he almost started 
at observing its sickly hue and evident attenuation. 

" Are you well, Milly ?" he asked abruptly, " quite well, 
dearest Millicent ? This Httle hand tells a feverish tale — 



GKAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. ^59 

and those cheeks ! — fie ! fie ! Milly ! You have been a self- 
tormentor of late." And he was but half satisfied with her 
assurance that she was not ill— had nothing to complain of, 
only a little occasional languor — and now that he had 
brought her such consoling tidings of her dear father's pro- 
gress, she would rouse herself to hope and cheerfulness, and 
the resumption of all their favourite pursuits and occupa- 
tions. 

When Nora opened the cottage gate to let out Vernon 
that evening, he lingered a moment to speak a kind word or 
two to the faithful old servant, and then, suddenly reverting 
to his late startling observations, he said, " Millicent has 
been worrying herself to death, Nora, with anxiety about 
her father. We must take better care of her and prevent 
this, or she will fret herself into a fever ; I was quite struck 
this evening with her altered looks." "And was you in- 
deed ? — and time you should, maybe," answered Nora, in her 
driest and least cordial tone — -for she had long discerned a 
change in her darling's health and spirits, which had escaped 
even the parental eye ; and with the shrewd quickness of 
doting affection, she had not failed to remark, that though 
the affianced lovers were together as much as formerly, and 
though they met and parted, to all appearance, as affection- 
ately as ever, their separation was too often followed by a 
cloud on Millicent's brow which had not been used to hang 
there during such brief absences ; and more than once Nora 
had surprised her weeping in her own little chamber, after 
her return from a walk with Vernon. It was therefore that 
she replied to his questions with almost reproachful cold- 
ness ; but her slight and vague displeasure was soon appeas- 
ed by the unafiected warmth with which he now poured 
forth the apprehensions she had succeeded in rousing so ef- 
fectually ; and he slept not that night for thinking of Milli- 
cent's burning hand and crimsoned cheek, and for wishing 
it were day that he might revisit the cottage, and urge her 
to see their good friend the village apothecary, and consult 
him respecting those symptoms of feverish debility, which 
he was now persuaded had been long hanging about her, 
though his own perceptions of the evil had been so tardily 
22 



254 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXI. 

awakened. Full of these anxious thoughts and intentions, 
he presented himself at Millicent's breakfast-table, just as 
she had descended from her own chamber ; but felt almost 
immediately reassured by a first glance at the now natural 
hue of her fair complexion, the calm smile with which she 
greeted his appearance, and the soft coolness of the hand 
extended to meet his with affectionate welcome. His pre- 
vious anxiety, and his earnest wish that she should consult 
Mr. Henderson, were not left unmentioned, however ; but, 
by the time breakfast was over, Millicent had so well suc- 
ceeded in talking and smiling him out of his fears, that 
when Nora came in to remove the tea equipage, he could 
not forbear casting towards her one glance of almost re- 
proachful exultation, which, however, obtained no other re- 
turn than a look of discouraging seriousness. 

But after a little time, even Nora's fond apprehensive- 
ness began to yield to the comforting evidences of her darl- 
ing's daily renovation. Long, and frequent, and satisfac- 
tory letters arrived from Ireland — satisfactory at least as to 
the point she had most at heart, the welfare of her beloved 
father. Colonel Aboyne gave her the most positive assu- 
rances, that he had received unexpected and extraordinary 
benefit, from the stimulating effects of his voyage and jour- 
ney, and the influence of his native air ; and in his first 
letter, he expressed sanguine hope of a favourable result to 
the business he was engaged in. Succeeding accounts, 
however, became on that head more discouraging. Colonel 
Aboyne's flattering expectations were soon overclouded — at 
last totally relinquished ; but still he wrote cheerfully, con- 
solingly, — spoke of himself as returning as poor a man, in- 
deed, as when he left his Milly and their dear cottage, but 
a renewed one in health and vigour, and again looking for- 
ward with tranquil hope, not only to the union of his child- 
ren, (for so he called both Horace and Millicent,) but, with 
God's blessing, to see them assured of that moderate com- 
petence which had already been withheld so far beyond the 
term of human calculation. And then Vernon breathed 
into Millicent's ear the arrangements which had been en- 
tered into by her father and himself, respecting their almost 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 255 

immediate union on Colonel Aboyne's return from Ireland, 
whatever might be the result of his visit to that country ; 
and Millicent, though she listened with surprise and agita- 
tion, did not refuse to ratify a compact so tenderly and 
sacredly hallowed. 

Colonel Aboyne's last brief letter was merely to mention 
the day of his embarkation, and that on which, to an almost 
certainty^ he might be expected at Sea Vale ; " and even 
now" he wrote — " while I trace these few last lines, me- 
thinks I see our own dear cottage, my Milly looking anx- 
iously out for me from the garden gate, and Horace advanc- 
ing down the green lane, in readiness to receive the old 
cripple, and help him carefully down the ladder-steps of the 
stupendous Highflyer. Be there both of you, my children, 
that we may together re-enter that peaceful abode, soon, I 
hope, to shelter us all beneath its roof, one united and con- 
tented family of love." 

But God had appointed otherwise. On the evening of 
that day, which should have restored the father and the 
friend to his expecting dear ones, there was a sound of 
weeping and lamentation, of " woman's wail," within the 
darkened parlour of Sea Vale Cottage, where three persons 
were assembed together, (all distinction of rank forgotten in 
the common sorrow,) to mingle their tears for the long ab- 
sent — the fondly expected — who was never more to re-enter 
his earthly habitation — whose " place was to know him no 
more." 

The packet on board which Colonel Aboyne had taken 
his passage, had foundered in mid-channel ; and of the few 
who were saved, he was not, Millicent was an orphan !. 



256 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXII. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

Autumn was fast fading into winter, when the heavy ti- 
dings of her sudden bereavement fell like an ice-bolt on the 
heart of Miss Aboyne. And long it was before the unre- 
mitting tenderness and attention of her now sole earthly 
protector — her betrothed husband — and the more than ma- 
ternal cares of her faithful Nora, were rewarded by any in- 
dications of reviving health and cheerfulness in the object 
of their mutual anxiety. 

Passing the common love between parent and child, had 
been that which bound up, as in one, the hearts of Colonel 
Aboyne and his motherless daughter ; and the reflection 
that, for her sake, this beloved father had undertaken the 
voyage which had terminated so fatally, failed not to dash 
her cup of sorrow with peculiar bitterness. The sudden- 
ness of the shock had also tried to the uttermost her deli- 
cate and already impaired constitution ; and for a consider- 
able time it required all the sedulous care of love and fideli- 
ty, and all the skill and unremitting watchfulness of her 
medical adviser, to avert the threatening symptoms of 
decline. 

But not only was Millicent Aboyne too truly a Christian 
to sorrow like those who have no hope, but even in this 
world she felt and gratefully acknowledged that she had 
hopes, and dear ones ; and that, if it pleased God to restore 
her to health, the after life that was to be passed with the 
husband of her choice, to whom she had been consigned, in 
a manner, by the dying breath of her beloved father, would 
be one of sweet contentedness. Therefore, when she 
prayed fervently to be reconciled to God's will in all things, 
she thought it no sin to add to that petition a humble and 
pathetic supplication for continued life, if he saw that it 
was expedient for her ; and the boon so submissively im- 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 257 

plored was, to present appearance, graciously conceded. 
Returning health once more re-invigorated the long-droop- 
ing frame, and again there was hope, and cheerfulness, and 
innocent enjoyment, and sweet companionship, in the or- 
phan's home. Then it was that Vernon began to urge her 
on the subject of an immediate union, with affectionate and 
forcible persuasion ; and Millicent was too well aware of 
the reasonableness of his arguments, and too nobly free 
from all taint of affectation, to hesitate a moment in acced- 
ing to his entreaties, except from motives of tender reluc- 
tance to exchange her mourning dress for bridal raiment, 
before the expiration of a twelvemonth from the time of her 
irreparable loss. She was also desirous, with God's bless- 
ing, to feel her health more perfectly re-established before 
she took upon herself the responsibility of new and impor- 
tant duties ; and finally, a compromise between the lovers 
was definitively arranged, that in three months from that 
last May morning which completed the sixth month from 
her father's death, Millicent Aboyne should become the 
wife of Horace Vernon. 

Few, on either side, were the requisite marriage prepara- 
tions. Little of worldly goods had each wherewith to en- 
dow the other. On Vernon's side, only the small stipend of 
his curacy ; on that of Millicent, no more than the property 
of her little cottage, and the broken sum of that small hoard, 
which was all Colonel Aboyne had been enabled to be- 
queath to his orphan daughter. Added to her scanty heri- 
tage was, however, one heirloom, justly valued by Milli- 
cent as a jewel of great price. The faithfully devoted No- 
ra was never to be sundered from her foster-child ; and 
with her aid and experience, the latter smilingly promised 
Vernon, that comfort and frugality should go hand in hand 
in their future establishment. Already Horace had as- 
sumed the management, not only of Millicent's flower-beds, 
but of the whole productive and well-arranged little garden; 
and he never quitted the small domain to return to his solitary 
corner of the large rambling old rectory, (occupied in part 
payment of his scanted dues,) without longing more and 
more impatiently for the approaching hour, when the gentle 
22* 



258 CHTTRCHYARDS. — ^CHAP. XXlT. 

mistress of Sea Vale Cottage should admit him there, tHie 
wedded partner of her humble aud happy home. 

One morning Vernon entered Millicent's little sitting- 
room with an open letter in his hand, which he flung into 
her lap as she sat at work, with an air of half jesting, half 
serious discomposure. "There, Milly!" said he; "read 
that — and you may expect me to come and take up my 
abode here directly^ whether you will or not. Perverse 
girl ! if you had not doomed me to such long exclusion, I 
should not now be annoyed by the contents of that provo- 
king letter. Read, read, Milly ! and revoke my sentence.'* 
The letter so ungraciously commented on was nevertheless 
an exceedingly well-turned, well-bred epistle, from no less 
a personage than the honourable and reverend Dr. Hartop, 
Vernon's rector, and the rector and holder of more than one 
other valuable living and comfortable piece of church pre- 
ferment. He had not visited his Sea Vale flock since it 
had been committed to the care of the present curate ; but 
his physician having recommended sea air and quiet, as 
restoratives after a long enfeebling illness, and cherishing 
in his own mind an affectionate recollection of the lobsters 
and turbot that frequent those happy shores, the honourable 
and reverend gentleman forthwith felt a conscientious call 
to bestow his pastoral presence for the summer months 
among his coast parishioners. He was to be accompanied 
in his retirement by the youngest of eight portionless daugh- 
ters of his brother-in-law, the Earl of Marchwood, who, as 
well as his amiable Countess, was always magnanimously 
ready to spare either of their blooming treasures, to enliven 
the solitude of their wealthy and reverend uncle, and smooth 
his gouty footstool.. The noble parents would, indeed, have 
extended the sacrifice to any number of the fair bevy Dr. 
Hartop might have been pleased to put in requisition ; but 
that highly conscientious person not only revolted from ex- 
acting too much from such all-conceding generosity, but felt 
a strong conviction that his personal comforts would be 
more attended to, and the orthodox regularity of his house- 
hold less deranged, by one of the lovely sisters, than if he 
had availed himself of the liberally-granted privilege to sum-- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 259 

mon them in divisions. The privilege of selection he, how- 
ever, exercised without scruple ; and on the present occa- 
sion, was to be accompanied to Sea Vale by his favourite 
niece. Lady Octavia Falkland, a very lovely, gay, good- 
humoured, captivating creature of nineteen — " toute petrie 
d'esprit," said her French governess — brilliantly accom- 
plished, and {as every body said) " with the best heart in 
the world." 

Lady Octavia was perfect, in short — or would have been, 
but for some of those trifling alloys inseparable from earthly 
perfection ; such as a little vanity, a little selfishness, a little 
cunning, and a little want of principle. To leave London 
in full season, with an old valetudinarian uncle, for " the 
ends of the earth," was, however, such a heroic sacrifice to 
duty as Lady Marchwood failed not to turn to good ac- 
count, by descanting thereon, with maternal sensibility, in 
the hearing of all with whom the touching trait was likely 
to tell — especially in the presence of a young Earl of im- 
mense property, lately come of age, and as yet encumbered 
with a few rustic prejudices in favour of religion and mo- 
rality, the fruit of much seclusion with a sickly methodisti- 
cal mother, who had early instilled into the heart of her only 
child, " that peculiar way of thinking" which had strangely 
supported her through trials of no common character. 

Lord M had been evidently struck by the beauty of 

the fair Octavia, and as evidently captivated by her en- 
gaging sweetness. He had danced with her, talked with 
her, and, as was clearly perceptible to Lady Marchwood's 
discriminating eye, watched her still more assiduously ; and 
still he spake not — and on one or two late occasions, as he 
became more familiar with the home circle of Marchwood 
House, he had looked startled and uncomfortable at some 
interesting naivete of the Lady Octavia, (who, to do her jus- 
tice, was seldom off" her guard in his company;) and then 
there was such a visible refroidissement — a something so 
like drawing back, in his demeanour towards the lady, that 
her affectionate mamma, having lectured her pathetically 
on the consequences of her indiscretion, thought there was 
something quite providential in the Sea Vale scheme, of 



260 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXII. 

which she purposed to make the most in Lord M -'s 

hearing in the manner aforesaid. "And then," said she, 
" Octavia, when he comes down to us in the autumn, as 
you know he has half promised, if you will but be prudent 
for a little while, and fall naturally into his odd tastes and 
fancies, depend on it he will speak.^' Which maternal con- 
solation, combined with private visions of other contingent 
rewards to be coaxed out of the rich old uncle, and her 
constitutional good temper, enabled the fair exile to submit 
to her fate with a degree of resignation, not less edifying 
than amazing, considering she was aware of all its horrors — 
of the perfect seclusion of Sea Vale, where the curate and 
apothecary were likely to be the only visiters at the rec- 
tory. The said rectory was a large, old-fashioned, but not 
incommodious mansion, of which, as has been said, a couple 
of rooms were occupied by Horace Vernon. 

Dr. Hartop's letter (which had been so ungraciously re- 
ceived) very politely requested that Mr. Vernon would con- 
sider himself his guest during his, the Doctor's, residence at 
Sea Vale ; and then went on to bespeak Horace's obliging 
superintendence of certain arrangements and alterations res- 
pecting furniture, &;c. &;c., especially in the apartments de- 
signed for the occupation of his niece. Lady Octavia Falk- 
land. This letter was brought by the first division of the 
household ; and Dr. Hartop and Lady Octavia were to be 
expected at Sea Vale in a week at furthest. 

"And the old rectory is half turned out of window 
already," said Vernon, pettishly, when he had told his story, 
and Millicent had glanced over the Doctor's letter — " and a 
whole waggon-load of things is arrived — couches, chaises- 
longues, a French bed, a whole steam kitchen, and a huge 
harp case among the rest. I dare say that Lady Octavia 
is very fine and disagreeable." 

"A most candid conclusion, truly !" observed Millicent 
with a smile, — but it was a half smile only; for in heart 
she was as much annoyed as Horace by the intelligence he 
had communicated. In former days, the arrival of these 
strangers would have been a matter of indifference to her, 
or perhaps of cheerful interest ; but at present, scarcely re- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 261 

covered from the effects of recent affliction — shrinking from 
the eye of strangers with a morbid timidity, which, from 
long seclusion, had grown upon her natural diffidence — still 
enfeebled in health, and not unconscious that her present 
situation was one of peculiar delicacy, Miss Aboyne would 
have indeed preferred that the Rector and Lady Octavia's 
visit to Sea Vale should have been deferred till after her 
union with Horace Vernon. Perhaps if he had, at that mo- 
ment, more seriously enforced his jesting petition, to be 
forthwith admitted to the peaceful sanctuary of Millicent's 
cottage, she might have been induced to rescind her former 
decision, and cede to him, without further delay, the posses- 
sion of herself and of her little dwelling. But Vernon talked 
away his vexation, and Millicent kept hers within her own 
heart, secretly chiding its utter unreasonableness ; for what 
would the stranger be to her ? She should not see or be 
seen by them but at church, and then, why need she shrink 
from observation, — if, indeed, one so insignificant should at- 
tract any ? 

The preparations at the rectory went briskly on, and as 
the new and elegant articles of ornamental furniture were 
unpacked, Vernon insensibly became interested in examin- 
ing them, and superintending the arrangements of Lady 
Octavia's boudoir. An elegant harp was extracted from its 
cumbrous case by a servant intrusted with the key, and, to- 
gether with music-stands and stools, a painting easel, sundry 
portfolios, inlaid work-boxes, &;c. &;c., disposed in pictur- 
esque order in the dedicated chamber, and a pile of Italian 
music, two or three volumes of Italian and English poems, 
some French novels, and one of Schiller's dramas in the 
original, arranged with good effect on the different tables 
and chiffonnieres by the well-trained footmen, gave the tout- 
ensemble an air of so much literary elegance, as failed not 
to make due impression on Vernon's tasteful imagination, 
and in some measure to soften down his prejudice (so un- 
warrantably imbibed !) against the unknown possessor. But 
still he had settled in his own mind, that in her deportment 
to himself, she would be reserved, distant, and disagreeable ; 
and he promised himself to be as little as possible in her au- 



262 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIX. 

gust presence. This preconception and predetermination 
savoured far less of judicious reasoning and amiable humil- 
ity, than of ignorance of the world, and lurking vanity and 
pride ; but it has been observed, that the latter were among 
Vernon's besetting sins, and the former was the unavoida- 
ble result of circumstances. 

The important day arrived, and from the porch of Miss 
Aboyne's cottage, (in and out of which he had been fidget- 
ing for the last hour,) Vernon spied a travelling carriage 
and four descending the hilly approach into Sea Vale. 
*' There they are, Milly !" he exclaimed, suddenly letting 
fall her arm that had been resting on his, and starting in- 
voluntarily a few paces forward—" and I must be gone to 
receive the Doctor and that fine Lady Octavia. It's all 
your fault, Milly, when I might have remained here, if you 
had pleased, and been independent of all this fuss and bus- 
tle ;" and he turned back and took both her hands, gazing 
on her for a moment with a look of reproachful tenderness, 
" And how pretty and quiet every thing here looks this eve- 
ning !" he added, glancing round him ; " and we should 
have had some music in the honeysuckle arbour now you 
can sing again, Milly." — "Perhaps," replied she, faintly 
smiling, " Lady Octavia will sing to you." — "Oh ! if she 
were to condescend so far, I should hate her singing ; and 
that fine harp would never sound half so sweet to me as the 
dear old guitar, Milly." — ^Millicent thanked him with a look 
for the fond unreasonableness of the lover-like assertion, 
and then hastened him away to receive, with honour due, 
his honourable and reverend Rector. To say the truth, 
when his really affectionate feelings for her had given utter- 
ance to those few hurrying words, he did not seem very 
loath to obey her injunction ; and, when he had cleared the 
green lane at three bounds, and turned the corner towards 
the rectory, he stopped a moment to take off his hat, run 
his fingers through the bright waves of his fine thick hair, 
and pull up his shirt-collar to the most becoming altitude. 

The rectory and Miss Aboyne's cottage were situated at 
opposite extremities of the straggling village ; and the dis-. 
tance between the two habitations being so inconsiderablcj. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 263 

Millicent thought it not improbable she might see Horace 
again that evening, after Dr. Hartop's late dinner, or be^ 
fore the hour of retiring. More than once after twilight, 
and in spite of the fast falling dews, she returned to the 
garden gate, to listen if a well-known footstep were coming 
down the lane ; and that night, long after the usual hour of 
its disappearance, a light was burning in Millicent's little 
parlour. But it was extinguished at last ; and all was 
darkness, and quiet, and sweet rest probably, under the 
humble roof of the orphan's cottage. 

The next morning, as Millicent was seated at her early- 
breakfast, the little ceisement opened from without, and 
Vernon's handsome face, radiant with smiles and cheerful- 
ness, looked in between the clustering roses. " What vul- 
gar hours you keep, Milly," said he ; " I'm positively 
ashamed of you. Miss Aboyne ! We are in our first 
sleep yet at the rectory, and sha'n't breakfast these three 
hours." 

" Look, then," she smilingly replied, " at this tempting 
bowl of rich new milk, and this brown bread, and fresh yel- 
low butter of Nora's own making — and the tea is as strong 
as you like it — see ! — and such cream ! — there can be none 
such at the rectory. Won't all these delicacies tempt you 
to breakfast with me ?" — " Half of them — the least of them, 
dearest!" he answered, twisting himself dexterously in 
through the window, demolishing a whole garland of roses, 
and upsetting a work-table and a glass of flowers, in his un- 
ceremonious entree ; in spite of which high crime and mis- 
demeanour, in two minutes he was seated with the ease of 
perfect innocence at Miss Aboyne's breakfast table, and 
there was no trace of stern displeasure in the face of the 
fair hostess, as she poured out for him the promised basin of 
potent green tea. 

"You were right enough, Milly!" said Vernon, after de- 
molishing a huge fragment of Nora's sweet brown loaf — 
(for it is a truth to be noted, that lovers as well as heroes 
never forget to "appease the rage of hunger") — " You were 
right enough, Milly ! Lady Octavia is not half so disagree- 
able as I expected to find her. In fact, she is really agree- 



264 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXII. 

able on the whole ; certainly a lovely creature ! — and she 
and Dr. Hartop were both exceedingly polite to me ; but 
somehow I felt but half at ease. The Doctor's civility is so 
pompous, and now and then I could have fancied Lady Oc- 
tavia too condescending.^ I wished myself here more than 
once in the course of the evening, but could not get away ; 
for first the Doctor pinned me down to three games of 
backgammon" — " And then, I dare say, you had music, had 
you not ?" asked Millicent. " Yes, Lady Octavia played 
all the time I was engaged with her uncle, and put me sadly 
out, by the by ; for she plays so divinely, there was no 
attending to the game." — " So I suppose by this time 
you like the harp almost as well as the guitar j" said 
Miss Aboyne, with an arch glance at her companion. — • 
" Not I, indeed !" replied Vernon, quickly, with a rather 
heightened colour ; " though, to be sure. Lady Octavia 
was amazingly condescending — very considerate of the 
poor curate's ignorance and rusticity. She had been sing- 
ing Italian while I was playing with her uncle — some of 
our favourite things, Milly ; — but when the game was fin- 
ished, and I approached the harp, her ladyship said, in the 
sweetest tone possible, ' I dare say you would rather have 
some English song, Mr. Vernon ; perhaps I may find one 
or two among this unintelligible stuff,' and out she rumma- 
ged 'The Woodpecker' — my aversion, you know, Milly!" 
— Millicent, who knew Vernon's passionate taste for Italian 
music and poetry, (she herself, admirably taught by her 
father, had perfected him in the language,) could not help 
laughing at his evidently nettled recital of Lady Octavia's 
considerate kindness in lowering her performance to the 
supposed level of his comprehension ; but perceiving, with 
a woman's quick perception in such matters, that even her 
innocent mirth was not contagious, (it is a nice affair to jest 
with wounded vanity,) she unaflfectedly changed the sub- 
ject, by drawing him into the garden, where she required 
his assistance in some trifling office about her hyacinths, 
and soon beguiled him again into smiles and good-humour ; 
and at last engaged him to accompany her own sweet 
voice, and the old fine-toned guitar, in one of his favourite 



t&RAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 265 

harmonies — not Italian, indeed, but a Scotch air of exqui- 
site pathos, which had many a time before exorcised the 
foul fiend when its spell of fretfulness and despondency was 
cast over him. 

Among the simple pleasures dear to Miss Aboyne, one of 
the greatest had ever been, from earliest womanhood, the 
quiet luxury of an evening walk ; and now, in later life, 
that innocent pleasure had not only lost nothing of its 
pleasantness, but the charm of association, and the pensive 
joy of memory, cast a more hallowed tone over the hour of 
her favourite enjoyment. For many weeks, nay months, 
after her father's death, the impaired health of his sorrow- 
ing child incapacitated her from stirring beyond the narrow 
boundary of her own little garden ; but of late, so much of 
health and strength had she regained, that, with the support 
of Vernon's arm, she had adventured to some distance from 
her home, and even beyond the village ; and as the warm 
pleasant spring weather became more genial and confirmed, 
Millicent's fluctuating cheek became tinted with more per- 
manent hues of health ; and every evening she was able to 
extend her walk a little and a little further, with her unfail- 
ing and attentive companion. 

Those only who have languished under the pressure of a 
lingering enervating malady, more trying perhaps to the 
moral frame than many acute disorders, can conceive the 
exquisite enjoyment of feeling enabled, by gradually reviv- 
ing strength, once more to wander out beyond some nar- 
row limits, within which the feeble frame has long been 
captive, to breathe the fresh free air of meadow or common, 
or the perfume of green briery lanes, skirting the clover or 
the bean field, the still requisite support of some kind arm 
ever punctually ready at an accustomed hour to lead forth 
the grateful convalescent. How impatiently is that hour 
expected ! — and should any thing occur to protract or mar 
the promised pleasure, how far more acutely felt is that pri- 
vation than so trifling a disappointment should seem to war- 
rant ! Far heavier crosses may be borne with more equa- 
nimity, at less cost of reason and self-control. 
- So of late had Millicent longed for the hour of the even- 
23 



266 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXII. 

ing walk — the hour when her capabilities of enjoyment, 
physical and intellectual, were ever keenest — when Vernon, 
released from his own peculiar duties and avocations, came, 
punctual almost to a moment, to be her companion for the 
remainder of the day, to afford her the support of his arm 
as far as her gradually returning strength enabled her to 
wander ; and then, re-entering the cottage in tranquil hap- 
piness, to share with her the pure pleasures of reading, music, 
or sweeter converse, till her early hour of retiring. No 
wonder poor Millicent had fallen into the habit of longing 
for the return of evening ! But now, for a season she must 
cease to do so. At least she must be content with uncer- 
tain, perhaps unfrequent and hurried visits from Vernon, 
after the late dinner at the rectory ; and Miss Aboyne had 
too much good sense and delicacy not to feel, and even en- 
force upon Horace, the propriety and common courtesy of 
giving his society, for at least the greater part of most eve- 
nings, to the host at whose table he was a constant guest. 
And truly, in the perfect seclusion of Sea Vale, and the 
present deranged state of Dr. Hartop's health, which pre- 
cluded him from inviting to the rectory any of those who 
might, perhaps, have charitably bartered a portion of their 
precious time for the reverend gentleman's exquisite cuisine 
and old hochheimer, (not to mention the attractions of his 
lovely niece,) — the ready-made society of the young cu- 
rate — his qualifications of backgammon-playing — of listen- 
ing deferentially to long prosing stories, when the Doctor 
was disposed to tell them, or, when the latter was slumber- 
onsly inclined, of discreetly and noiselessly stealing away 
to the drawing-room and Lady Octavia's harp, thereby con- 
tributing, in the dearth of stronger stimuli, to keep the 
young lady in that flow of good humour so conducive to 
her uncle's comfort. These several qualifications, com- 
bined with the gentlemanly manners and unexceptionable 
character of Vernon, made his society too valuable at Sea 
Vale Rectory not to be monopolized there, with as much 
exacting selfishness as could be exercised consistently with 
Dr. Hartop's natural indolence and habitual good breeding. 
— Lady Octavia also conceived an amiable and immediate 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 267 

interest for the handsome, unsophisticated young curate, 
and forthwith set her fertile imagination to trace out the 
rough draft of a philanthropic plan for " making something 
of him," during the summer seclusion to which she had so 
dutifully devoted herself. No passion is so vulgar or so 
vulgarizing as an insatiate love of indiscriminate admira- 
tion. The high-born and high-bred Lady Octavia Falkland, 
habituated as she was to the refined incense of courtly cir- 
clcs, would have condescended to smile on her uncle's 
apothecary, rather than have wasted " her sweetness on 
the desert air." Vernon was comparatively an unexcep- 
tionable protege, and her benevolent scheme in his favour 
was by no means " nipped i' th' hurl," by the information 
communicated by Mrs. Jenkins, while assisting her lady to 
undress on the night of her arrival at Sea Vale Rectory, of 
his engagement with Miss Aboyne. "What a stupid affair 
that must be!" soliloquized the Lady Octavia; "and how 
charitable it will be to give ' the gentle shepherd,' really so 
tolerable a creature, some idea of la belle passion in its 
higher refinements — of the tastes and enjoyments of civilized 
society, before he is buried forever in a country parish, with 
a dowdy wife and a parcel of chubby cherubs. I suppose,'* 
observed her ladyship, more directly addressing herself to 
the confidential attendant — " I suppose this Miss — What 
d'ye call her ? — is some rustic beauty, all lilies, and roses, 
and flaxen curls ; for really Mr. Vernon is so good-looking, 
and so tolerable altogether, he would not have picked out a 
fright." 

" Oh ! they say she's very genteel, my lady ! — (Miss 
Abine's her name, my lady !) — and used to be estimated 
rather handsome formerly, before she lost her father, and 
fell into ill health — and she's not so young as she has 
been." 

" Why, Mr. Vernon can't be more than five or six and 
twenty, and it's impossible he can be in love with any 
thing as old as that, when there can be no agremens to 
make amends for the want of youth." 

" Oh ! Mr. Vernon's seven-and-twenty, my lady ! and 
Miss Abine's near three years older." 



268 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIf. 

" Three years older ! — what, almost thirty ? — ^You must 
be mistaken, Jenkins ; Mr. Vernon could never have en- 
gaged himself so absurdly ; — ^but it's an old affair, you said, 
didn't you, Jenkins ? Quite a take-in then, no doubt ; for 
I suppose she has been good-looking — and boys are so easily 
caught ! It's amazing how artful some old spiders are ! — 
There's Lady William Lorimer always contrives to hook in 
all the best men, somehow. But then she's married — ^that's 
one thing ;" and so saying, the fair Octavia's head sank on 
her soft pillow, to dream of old spiders and young flies, the 
philanthropic pleasure of rescuing some fluttering innocent 
from the web of its wily destroyer, and the peculiar privi- 
leges and advantages of noarried ladies. 

If Vernon's evening visits to the cottage became com- 
paratively short and unfrequent after the arrival of the 
strangers, during the earlier part of their sojourn at the rec- 
tory, he generally made his appearance at Millicent's early 
breakfast table, and devoted to her as great a part of every 
morning as he could abstract from his parochial duties — 
duties from which she would have been the last to entice 
him ; and once he had stolen away during Dr. Hartop's 
after-dinner nap — not to the rectory drawing-room and 
Lady Octavia, but to the cottage parlour and its gentle oc- 
cupant, whose delighted and grateful surprise at sight of the 
unexpected visiter, made him first fully sensible of what 
she (the least selfish and exacting of human beings) had 
never even hinted — how lonely she had been in his absence ; 
and he fancied, besides, that an appearance of more than 
usual languor was perceptible about her, though at sight of 
him a rich and beautiful glow suffused her before colourless 
cheek, and her sweet eyes glistened (not sparkled) with af- 
fectionate welcome, as she exclaimed, " Dear Horace ! is it 
you 1 — How good you are to steal away to me ! But could 
you do so without incivility ? — what will they think at the 
rectory ?" 

" I don't care what they think, Milly !" replied Vernon 
quickly. " This is all very wrong — very hard upon us. 
Here you sit, left alone, evening after evening, deprived of 
exercise — of the quiet walks we so enjoyed together ^ and 



GKAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 269 

I am sure, though you said nothing, you have missed them 
very much. Why did you not take Nora's arm, and stroll 
out this fine evening, Milly ?" 

" Oh ! I did not care to walk without you, dear Horace,, 
and Nora is busy in her dairy at this hour, you know ; and 
besides," she added with a cheerful smile, " I am very busy 
also, and shall get through a marvellous deal of work, now 
you are not here to make me idle." That evening, how- 
ever, Millicent was but too happy to relinquish her notable 
employment for pleasant idleness, and sweet companion- 
ship, and the reviving freshness of the bright green fields. 
The lovers talked together of their approaching union, their 
unambitious hopes of quiet happiness, their plans of active 
usefulness and wise frugality to be patiently and firmly 
pursued, till the better times, still prospectively before them, 
should arrive, to recompense them for the cheerful en- 
durance of temporary privations. 

While they thus held sweet converse together, insensibly,, 
as the evening shadows blended into twilight, assuming a 
more serious and tender tone, well befitting the discourse of 
friends who spoke of travelling together through time into 
eternity — while they thus held sweet converse, and Ver- 
non listened to the low accents of Millicent's voice — so ten- 
der in its melodious inflections — so touching as it breathed 
forth, with tremulous earnestness, the inmost thoughts and 
feelings of her pure and pious heart, — he felt — felt deeply — 
the surpassing worth of the treasure committed to his care ; 
and perhaps a vague, an almost indefinite, emotion of self- 
reproach, mingled with the tender impulse which caused 
him to press more affectionately close the arm which rested 
upon his, and to look round with moistened eyes on the calm 
sweet seriousness of that saintlike countenance, upraised to 
his with the innocent confidence of an angel's love. " Af- 
ter all," said Vernon to himself as he retraced his solitary 
way that night to the rectory — " after all, my own Millicent 
is as superior to that brilliant Lady Octavia, as is yon beau- 
tiful pale moon to the bright meteor which has just shot 
earthward." What inference may be drawn from this sol- 
iloquy as to the nature of foregone comparisons floating iih 
23* 



270 eHURCHYARDS^. CHAP. XXIT. 

Vernon's mind within the circle of Lady Octavia's fascina-^ 
tions, we leave to the judicious reader's opinion ; — certain 
it is, that the last fervent conclusion was the genuine spon- 
taneous effusion of sincere and affectionate conviction. 

The next day was Sunday, and Vernon had promised to 
be at the cottage early enough to conduct Millicent to church, 
and to her own pew adjoining the rector's, before the gen- 
eral entrance of the congregation ; for though he assured 
her that Dr. Hartop considered himself still too much a 
valetudinarian to encounter the fatigues of early rising and 
morning church, and that there was little chance, from 
what he had observed, of Lady Octavia's attending the first 
service, MilUcent had a nervous dread of walking alone up, 
the long aisle, subjected to the possible gaze of strangers,, 
and gladly accepted the promise of Vernon's early escort. 

But Fate and Lady Octavia had ordered otherwise. 
Contrary to Vernon's " foregone conclusion," and just as 
he was hastening away to the cottage, it was sweetly sig- 
nified to him by Mrs. Jenkins, that her lady, who had hith- 
erto taken breakfast about eleven in her own boudoir, would 
that morning have the pleasure of making tea for Mr. Ver- 
non, from whom she should afterwards request the favour 
of conducting her to the rectory pew. The lady trode on 
the heels of her message. The breakfast room was thrown 
open, and she led the way into it with gracious smiles and 
winning courtesy, Vernon following in such a bewilderment 
of annoyance at being thus compelled to break his engage- 
ment with Millicent, and of admiration for Lady Octavia's 
blooming graces and captivating sweetness, that he quite 
forgot it would have been at least expedient to send a mes- 
sage to the cottage ; and, strange as it may seem, by the 
time breakfast was half over, Vernon had actually ceased 
to think of any object in heaven or earth beyond the inte-^ 
rior of the rectory parlour. 

As Lady Octavia took his arm on proceeding towards the 
church, however, a thought darted across him of her who 
was at that very moment expecting the promised support of 
that very arm in affectionate security ; and for a few min- 
utes he was troubled and distrait, and made irrelevant an- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 271 

swers to Lady Octavia's remarks and questions. Her lady- 
ship had too much tact to notice the temporary abstraction ; 
and, before they reached the thronged churchyard, Vernon's 
thoughts were again engrossed by the charms of his fasci- 
nating companion, and his besetting sin — his lurking vanity 
—was not a little excited by her flattering condescension, 
and the eclat of making so public an appearance with the 
high-born beauty familiarly leaning on his arm. It was not 
until he had conducted the fair stranger through the double 
file of gazers that lined the long central aisle up to the rec- 
tor's pew, and left her there, properly accommodated with 
hassock and prayer-book, and till he had withdrawn to put 
on his surplice in the vestry — ^it was not till then that a 
thought of Millicent again recurred to him. But then it did 
recur, and so painfully, that even after he had ascended the 
pulpit, and was about to commence that sacred office which 
should have abstracted his mind from all worldly concerns, 
he found it impossible to restrain his wandering and troubled 
thoughts ; and his heart smote him, when, glancing down- 
wards on the assembled congregation, his eyes rested on the 
empty pew where poor Millicent should have been already 
seated, and that immediately adjoining, already occupied by 
the fair stranger whom he had conducted thither,. 



272 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 



CHAPTER xxirr. 

It was the custom at Sea Vale Church to begin the first 
service with the morning hymn, not one verse of which was 
ever omitted by the zealous throats of the village choristers ; 
and on this particular morning, those sweet singers of Is- 
rael, in concert — or rather out of concert — with bassoon 
and bass viol, had groaned, droned, and quavered through 
the first five verses, when the church-door fronting the pul- 
pit, at the end of the long middle aisle, slowly opened, and 
two female forms appeared at it. One, the humble homely 
person of Nora Carthy, dropped aside into some obscure 
corner ; and Miss Aboyne, who had been leaning on the 
arm of her faithful attendant, came slowly and timidly up 
the long aisle with ill-assured and faltering steps, her tall 
slender form bending under evident languor and weakness. 
She still wore the deepest and plainest mourning, and her 
face was almost entirely concealed by a large bonnet, and 
a long crape veil. On reaching the door of her own pew, 
her tremulous hand — even from that distance Vernon saw 
that it trembled — found some difficulty in unhasping it, and 
an old greyhaired man started forward from his bench in 
the aisle to render her that little service, in return for which 
she gently inclined her head, and in another moment had 
sunk on her knees in the furthest corner of the pew. 

Vernon saw all this, too well recalling to mind poor Mil- 
licent's nervous anxiety to be quietly seated in church be- 
fore the arrival of strangers ; and he saw, besides, what he 
hoped had been unperceived by Miss Aboyne through her 
thick veil, that Lady Octavia had stood up in her pew to 
gaze on the late comer, as she slowly advanced up the 
church, and was still taking leisurely survey through an 
eye-glass of her kneeling figure. Vernon observed all this 
with acutely painful consciousness, and when the hymn was 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 2t3 

concluded, it was only by a powerful effort that he applied 
himself seriously to his solemn duty. 

When next he glanced towards Miss Aboyne's pew, 
(while the first psalm was being sung,) her veil was flung 
back, and he observed with pleasure that her sweet counte- 
nance wore its wonted expression of perfect serenity, 
and that she was too intent on the sacred words in her 
hymn-book, and too much engrossed by the utterance of 
her tribute of prayer and praise, to be sensible that the bril- 
liant eyes of her fair neighbour, still assisted by the raised 
eye-glass, were fixed in curious scrutiny of her person and 
features. In truth, Miss Aboyne had perfectly recovered 
the nervous trepidation which had distressed her on first 
entering the church ; awful consciousness of the Creator's 
presence soon superseded all thought of the creature in her 
pious heart ; and when at last her eyes caught an acciden- 
tal glance of her fair neighbour, the only feeling that for a 
moment drew her earthward, was one of admiration for 
Lady Octavia's striking loveliness. In her entire abstrac- 
tion from self, not even did the consciousness occur that 
she herself was the object of curious, and not polite — though 
it might be fashionable — examination. 

Millicent had attributed to its true cause the non-per- 
formance of Vernon's promise to be early that morning at 
the cottage. She surmised that he might have been unex- 
pectedly detained to accompany Lady Octavia to church ; 
and well aware that he could not courteously have declined 
that office if proposed to him, she only regretted that, hav- 
ing been delayed by lingering expectation till the last pos- 
sible moment, she should now have to encounter the re- 
doubled ordeal of walking up the church alone, through the 
assembled congregation. Nora indeed — whose arm, in 
default of Vernon's, was put in requisition — the warm- 
hearted, quick-spirited Nora — was fain to mutter some tart 
reflection about " new comers," and " fine doings," and 
" no notion of it," as she accompanied her fair mistress to 
church ; but the moro candid Millicent only smiled at the 
jealous discomposure of her fond nurse, who shook her 
head incredulously at the assurance that Vernon would come 



274 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

and make his innocence clear, the moment he was at liberty 
to steal away for a few moments to the cottage. And such 
indeed was his full intention, when, on hastening back from 
unrobing after service, he found Lady Octavia awaiting his 
escort homewards, and that Miss Aboyne was already out 
of sight. When they had reached the rectory, Dr. Hartop 
was already seated at his luxurious luncheon — the midday 
dinner of modern times— and Vernon was pressed to par- 
take before he mounted his horse for the church (some five 
miles from Sea Vale) at which he was to do afternoon 
duty. 

Suddenly Lady Octavia was seized with a devout desire 
of attending that second service, and her phaeton was or- 
dered to the door, and it was quickly arranged that she 
should drive Vernon to Eastwood Church, from which they 
were to return by a more circuitous, but very beautifid road, 
which her ladyship (as suddenly smitten with a passion for 
picturesque as well as holy things) expressed a vehement 
desire to explore. Dr. Hartop gave a reluctant assent to 
this arrangement, not from any prudential scruples respect- 
ing Lady Octavia's tete-d-tete with the handsome curate, as 
he felt comfortably assured her ladyship's views of an " es- 
tablishment" were as remote as possible from the beau-ideal 
of a cottage and a blackberry pudding ; but the honourable 
and reverend doctor rationally anticipated that the pro- 
tracted drive might interfere with his regular dinner hour, 
and from this solid ground of objection it required all Lady 
Octavia's powers of coaxing and persuasion to win him over 
to unwilling concession. 

The road from Sea Vale to Eastwood lay through the 
former village, close to Miss Aboyne's cottage at its out- 
skirts. As they approached the little dwelling, Vernon sent 
onward an uneasy furtive glance, and felt annoyed and un- 
comfortable at the slow pace in which it seemed just then 
the pleasure of his fair conductress to indulge her beautiful 
bay ponies. He wished — yet wherefore was almost imde- 
finable to himself — that Miss Aboyne might not be visible 
as they passed the cottage, and that they might pass it un- 
observed by her. But the wish, vague as it was, had 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. S75 

scarcely arisen, when Lady Octavia, reining in her ponies 
to a walk, exclaimed — ■" What a sweet cottage ! — a perfect 
cottage that, Mr. Vernon ! — and there's the person who sat 
in the next pew to my uncle's at church this morning, look- 
ing so wretchedly forlorn and sickly, but really genteel for 
that sort of person, and must have been rather pretty when 
she was young, poor thing ! Do you know who she is, Mr. 
Vernon?" — "A Miss Aboyne, daughter of a Colonel Aboyne, 
lately dead — a friend of mine," replied Vernon confusedly, 
and colouring, with a consciousness that he did so not tend- 
ing to remove his embarrassment. 

At that moment, Millicent, who was standing among her 
flower-beds, looked up at the sound of wheels, and their 
eyes encountered. A bright flush passed over her pale 
cheek, as she gave Vernon a half smile of recognition, and 
quietly resumed her occupation of tying up a tall lily, her 
face shaded by a large bonnet from further observation. 
Lady Octavia took another deliberate survey of Miss 
Aboyne through her eye-glass, and having so far satisfied 
her curiosity, continued, in a careless, half-absent manner 
— " Oh ! a friend of yours, you said, Mr. Vernon ? — this 
person's father — I beg your pardon though — she looks really 
very respectable, poor thing ? quite interesting in that deep 
mourning. Of course, as you know her, she is not a low 
person — some Colonel's daughter though, you said, I think ? 
and is he lately dead ; and does she live all alone in that 
pretty cottage ? How excessively romantic ! and it does 
not signify for that sort of person, at her age, you know. I 
suppose she is very poor — some half-pay oflficer's daughter ?" 
Vernon stammered something, not very intelligible, in reply 
to Lady Octavia's half question, half soliloquy ; but her 
ladyship talked on, apparently heedless of his conscious em- 
barrassed manner. 

" Do you know, Mr. Vernon, that my maid is a half-pay 
officer's daughter — really a very superior sort of person is 
Jerkins. Why does not this Miss — I forget her name — go 
out in some such capacity ? or as a governess ? — you know, 
she might get into some family as governess." — Vernon's 
latent spirit and real affection for Millicent being somewhat 



S76 CHUIlCHYAIll>S.— CHAP. XXItt. 

roused by these annoying comments and interrogations, he 
was just about to speak more plainly, and would probably 
have silenced Lady Octavia's voluble malice, by the simple 
avowal of the relation in which he stood to Miss Aboyne, 
when her ladyship, who guessed the coming confession, 
which it was by no means her intention to draw forth, 
adroitly diverted her observations from Miss Aboyne to the 
surrounding scenery ; and before they had well lost sight of 
Sea Vale, Vernon's spirited impulse had subsided, and he 
was again engrossed by Lady Octavia, and the gratification 
of being so graciously distinguished by the high-born beau- 
ty. But Lady Octavia's shafts had not glanced harmless ; 
more than one point remained rankling in the mark ; and 
with the next disengaged hour and thought of Millicent 
came hitherto unformed reflections in the lingering lot of 
poverty and obscurity to which they were possibly about to 
devote themselves, and an involuntary comparison between 
their ages for the first time occurred to him, in a light that 
made him wish the diiference had been reversed, and that 
he could count those two years in advance of Millicent. 
But his better feelings caused him to check, almost as soon 
as conceived, thoughts that were now as ill-timed as ungen- 
erous towards that gentle and confiding being, the most sin- 
cere and lowly-minded of all God's creatures, who had been 
long beforehand with him in regretting for his sake, her se- 
niority of age, and had not shrunk from commenting on it 
to himself, with characteristic ingenuousness ; for she felt, 
though he would not acknowledge it, that her prime was 
already past, while he had barely attained the full flush of 
maturity. But Millicent's self-depreciation was wholly un- 
tinctured with any jealous doubt of Vernon's true affection 
for her, and indifference to the more youthful attractions of 
other women ; and as he passed the cottage with his beau- 
tiful companion, if a sudden and natural comparison pre- 
sented itself between the blooming loveliness of the latter, 
and her own more humble pretensions, it was only accom- 
panied by a wish — a woman's fond, weak wish — that, for 
his sake, she were younger, and fairer, and every way more 



(SRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 277 

deserving of the love, of which, however, she apprehended 
no diminution. 

Dr. Hartop's fears were prophetic ; the picturesque cir- 
cuit home delayed the arrival of Lady Octavia and Vernon 
so long past the dinner hour, that the doctor's habitually 
urbane and placid temper would have been seriously dis- 
composed, had he not that morning, in the course of a long 
visit from Mr. Henderson, the Sea Vale -(Esculapius, ac« 
quired some information respecting the matrimonial en- 
gagements of his young curate, and the circumstances 
thereto relating, which, in the dearth of more interesting 
gossip, was not only acceptable to the worthy rector's cra- 
ving appetite and accommodating taste, but would furnish 
him, par les suites^ with a fair field for indulging his be- 
nevolent propensity and peculiar talent for giving gratui- 
tous advice with patronizing condescension. Therefore he 
looked but tenderly reproachful at Lady Octavia, though 
the fins of the turbot were boiled to rags, and various other 
dishes, reduced to consommes, gave touching testimony of 
her cruel inconsideration ; and scarcely had the servants 
left the dining room, when, giving three preliminary hems, 
and an inward chuckle, with which he was wont to preface 
his discourses in the pulpit and elsewhere, the honourable 
rector addressed his curate with a formal congratulation on 
his approaching marriage. Vernon's face crimsoned all 
over, as he bowed and stammered out a few words of awk- 
ward acknowledgment, stealing impulsively a furtive glance 
at Lady Octavia, who, affecting the most natural surprise 
in the world, artlessly exclaimed — " Married ! — Mr. Vernon 
going to be married, uncle ? — you don't say so 1 Oh, Mr. 
Vernon, how secret you have been ! — and may we know to 
whom, uncle?" "To a most unexceptionable and every 
way respectable and amiable young person, as I have this 
morning had the pleasure of learning from a friend of yours, 
my dear Mr. Vernon ! — from good Mr. Henderson, who 
tells me that Miss Aboyne" " Miss Aboyne !" inter- 
rupted Lady Octavia, with a pretty shriek of sudden dis- 
may ; " dear me ! who could have thought it ? I would not 
24 



278 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

for the world have" " You know Miss Aboyne, then ?" 

asked the doctor with some surprise, in his turn interrupting 
Lady Octavia. " Oh ! I saw her to-day at church ; and 
indeed she seems — she looks — that is, a — ^a very superior 
sort of person — I dare say very amiable, and excellent, 
and — You'll introduce me to Miss Aboyne, Mr. Vernon 1 
I assure you I am dying to know her." 

Vernon, now compelled to speak, made some awkward 
attempts to explain, that Miss Aboyne, from ill health and 
recent affliction, would not perhaps be able to avail herself 
of the honour of an introduction to Lady Octavia ; and 
then the doctor, impatient of colloquial trifling, which de- 
layed the pouring forth of his luminous and well-digested 
ideas, proceeded to favour Vernon, not only with his entire 
approbation of the projected union, but with an elaborate 
dissertation on domestic economy, by attending to the se- 
veral branches whereof (which he condescended to dwell on 
more particularly) a country curate might maintain a wife 
and family, and bring up a score of children, with infinite 
comfort and propriety, on an income short of a hundred and 
fifty pounds per annum. " Of course, my dear Mr. Ver- 
non !" the reverend gentleman went on to observe, " there 
can be no expensive luxuries, no idle superfluities, in such a 
modest and well-ordered establishment. But, after all, my 
dear sir ! how little suffices for our real wants ; and beyond 
those, what Christian character or philosophic mind would 

Octavia ! do, pray, desire that the gardener may be 

written to about these pines ; it is really scandalous ! — they 
cost me a guinea a-piece, and this is the second I have cut 

to-day, and both uneatable. Send me the guava But, 

as I was proceeding to observe — as I was going on to re- 
mark to you, Mr. Vernon — beyond our real necessities, 
(mere food and raiment,) what physical wants and temporal 
cares are worthy the consideration of a Christian and a 
philosopher ? It hath been truly said — 

* Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long.' 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 279 

And with regard to the article of food especially, I am per- 
suaded, Mr. Vernon, and after long and mature deliberation 
on the subject, I feel no hesitation in declaring my entire 
conviction, that in no part of the united kingdom is the in- 
fant population more hale, healthful, and multitudinous, 
than where oatmeal or potatoes, with milk, or even pure 
water, forms its unvaried and unsophisticated aliment. 
Therefore, my dear sir, with regard to your future family, 
(those numerous olive branches with which it is my sincere 
prayer that Providence may surround your table,) I have no 

hesitation in strenuously advising" 

What the doctor proceeded to advise must remain for 
ever secret between himself and Vernon, whose feelings, 
during the present harangue, can only be compared to 
those of a person undergoing the '"'"peine forte et dure," 
and who experienced proportionable relief when Lady 
Octavia, tired of continuing a silent tiers, arose to retire. 
As she passed him at the dining-room door, which he 
had hastened to hold open for her, she shook her fair 
head with a look of pretty anger, and archly putting up 
one taper forefinger to her rosy lip, said softly — " Oh, 
fie ! fie ! Mr. Vernon ! — how treacherous you have been !" 
Vernon slowly and reluctantly returned to his mitigated 
penance ; but far be it from us to review in detail the 
protracted torments of that mortal hour, during which the 
honourable and reverend gentleman, warmed with his own 
eloquence — charmed with his own theory — exalted with a 
sense of his own philanthropy, and with a consciousness of 
the lights which flowed in the faster as he continued to dif- 
fuse them — poured out his oracular suggestions with a con- 
descending suavity that descended to the more minute particu- 
lars. At length, however, articulation thickened — sentences 
lagged at their termination — words came slower — syllables 
dropped away to indefinite sounds — and at last, in a final 
bewilderment of — " As I was saying, Mr. Vernon — I repeat, 
my dear sir ! — that — that — I have no hesitation — in af-af- 
fir-r-r" — the comfortable double chin of the respectable ad- 
viser sank, embedded in its own rolls, on his ample chest, 



280 CHURCHYAKDS.— CHAP. XXIII. 

an incipient snore chimed in with the struggling affirmation, 
and after an attempt or two of guttural thickness, which 
sounded like " pease-porridge — cheap and wholesome," and 
" Mrs, Rundell," broke out into a grand continuous bass. 
Then, quietly and cautiously, Vernon rose from his seat of 
torture — quietly and cautiously he stole towards the door ; 
but not so noiselessly did he effect his exit as to be wholly 
unnoticed by the half-conscious slumberer, whose drowsy 
attempts at articulation forthwith recommenced, but only 
to commission his curate, who thanked Heaven for his es- 
cape, with a message to the Lady Octavia. After the scene 
of his recent mortification, of which her ladyship had been 
a witness, Vernon would gladly, had he been permitted, have 
avoided an early tete-d-tete with her, and his heart told him 
he was anxiously expected elsewhere ; but the doctor's mes- 
sage must be delivered — it need not delay him three min- 
utes ; and, with a determination that it should not, and hat 
in hand, he sprang upstairs, and into the drawing-room, 
from whence issued the sweet sounds of Lady Octavia's 
fine-toned harp and finer voice, deliciously blending in an 
aria of " Semiramide." Another voice, less powerful but 
more touching, accompanied by an humbler instrument, 
was breathing out at this self-same hour, in the orphan's 
home, such strains as well befitted the Sabbath vesper. Of- 
ten did that low melodious voice pause in a cadence, or hang 
suspended on a note, while the singer's head was suddenly 
upraised in a listening attitude, her long slender fingers sus- 
pended over the silent chords, and her eyes glancing anx- 
iously through the little casement towards the garden gate. 

Again and again recurred that anxious pause ; each time 
the hymn resumed with tones less firm, and a more plain- 
tive modulation — at last a deep and heavy sigh was the in- 
voluntary prelude ; and as Millicent withdrew her eyes from 
the window, tears, which had been long collecting within 
their lids, fell on her listless fingers as she bent over her in- 
strument, and endeavoured to renew the sacred harmony. 
It was but an endeavour. Her voice had become weak and 
tremulous ; so, discontinuing the vocal tribute, she wisely 
resorted to silent comm.union with that book which contains. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 281 

" words in season" for all the soul's necessities — of peace 
for the disquieted — of strength to the weak — of healing to 
the sorely stricken — of hope to the broken-hearted. Milli- 
cent found there the aid she sought ; and when, as was 
her custom, she had joined with her old servant in their 
nightly sacrifice of prayer and praise, she was able again, 
and without effort, to smile cheerfully, and speak cheer- 
ingly to that faithful humble friend, the bursting indig- 
nation of whose affectionate zeal she endeavoured to re- 
press, with a sincere assurance of her own conviction, 
that the morrow would bring with it a satisfactory explan- 
ation. 

Early the next morning — earlier even than Miss Aboyne's 
primitive breakfast hour, Vernon entered the little parlour 
just as Nora was removing the tea equipage. She scarcely 
vouchsafed to notice his entrance even with a look, and the 
grave severity of her countenance by no means tended to 
dispel the troubled surprise with which he had remarked her 
employment. "Nora!" he hurriedly exclaimed — -"what 
are you about ? — where is Miss Aboyne ?— Not ill ? not ill, 
surely?— God forbid!" 

" About as well as some folks wish her to be, I doubt," 
shortly and bitterly replied the indignant Nora, as she es- 
sayed, without further parley, or even honouring him with 
a second glance, to pass Vernon with the tea-tray. But 
his fears were now too thoroughly awakened to permit her 
silent egress ; and, grasping her wrist more forcibly than 
he was aware of, he said — " Nora ! Nora ! tell me, for 

God's sake, is she really ill ? — is my Millicent" and his 

voice trembled with an excess of agitation that shook even 
Nora's predetermined inflexibility, and she so far relented 
as to inform him, (as, indeed she had been especially enjoin- 
ed, in case he should call thus early,) that Miss Aboyne was 
suffering only from head-ach, but would be well enough to 
rise and receive him a little later in the day. She could not 
find in her heart, however, to give the supplement of Milli- 
cent's message ; namely, that the head-ach was, she believed, 
but the effect of a slight cold which she had taken the pre 
ceding day. In lieu of that assurance, so affectionately 
24* 



282 CHURCTIVARDS. CHAP. XXIir. 

intended to prevent self-reproach on the part of Vernon, the 
wrathful Nora, who had by no means any tender considera- 
tion for his feelings, took upon her to substitute an " amend- 
ment," imputing the head-ach to a sleepless night, and both 
the effect and its immediate cause to one far deeper, which 
she also vouched for on her own authority — the heart-ach ; 
and then, giving way to the impulse of her warm and faith- 
ful spirit, the affectionate creature laid her hand on Vernon's 
shoulder, and while tears filled her eyes as she fixed them 
earnestly on his, exclaimed — " Oh, Mr. Vernon ! Mr. Ver- 
non ! did I ever think it would have come to this ! — that 
my child ! my jewel ! the flower of the world ! Colonel 
Aboyne's daughter, should be slighted for that proud lady, 
who only came here to break my darling's heart, and help 
you to dig her grave, Mr. Vernon ! Ay, there she'll be 
soon, sir; and then you may go your ways and be happy." 
With which comfortable and comforting assurance, Nora 
pushed by with her breakfast-tray, followed, however, by 
Vernon, who, though his worst fears were relieved by the 
first part of her communication, still went on to ask a hun- 
dred anxious questions, and commission the half-relenting, 
nurse with as many tender messages, though the latter was 
too discerning and honest to feel or affect great reliance on 
his assurance, that he should satisfactorily account to Miss^ 
Aboyne for his apparent neglect of the preceding day. 

The incredulous messenger conscientiously " told the 
tale as 'twas told to her," nevertheless, virtuously refraining: 
from comment on " how the truth might be;" and Milli- 
cent's heart was prompt to accept beforehand the promised 
explanation. 

During the watches of a sleepless night, it was impossible 
but that troubled thoughts and vague surmises had crept 
into her mind, involuntarily and unencouraged, nay, quickly 
and perseveringly repressed, with the generous confidence of 
a nature not prone to think evil ; but still they returned 
like the phantoms of a feverish imagination, and Millicent 
was indeed sick in spirit, as well as physically indisposed, 
when Nora first drew her curtains that morning. But very 
soon the fresh air and the bright sunshine, entering at the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 2&'3 

unclosed lattice, brought with them sweet influences redolent 
of happier and more hopeful feelings ; and when Nora soon 
after returned with her report of Vernon's early visit and 
aflfectionate messages, Millicent smiled with perfectly re- 
stored cheerfulness, inwardly rebuking the weakness which 
had subjected her to such causeless uneasiness. Neither 
was she disappointed that morning of the promised speedy 
return. Neither, on the part of Vernon, was any thing 
left unsaid to make his peace (had that been necessary) 
with one whose gentle bosom harboured no accusing spirit ; 
and when he left her late and unwillingly — in truth it was 
always unwillingly that he did leave her — it was with a 
pledge to steal away to her again in time for one sweet 
hour of evening- walk, and more than one after-hour of social 
happiness in the dear little parlour, where so many a past 
evening had stolen away with the swift unsounding pace of 
unworldly innocent enjoyment. And punctual, as in for- 
mer days, was Horace Vernon to the hour of tryst ; and 
never, perhaps, even in former days, had his voice and looks, 
when addressing Millicent, expressed feelings so deep and 
tender. Those feelings were not excited by reviving at- 
tachment, for his true affection had never been alienated 
from their first object ; but if his heart had not strayed from 
its allegiance, his lighter fancy might have been more sus- 
ceptible of other fascinations ; and a consciousness of this 
sort, and that he had for a time forgotten her who ever 
thought of him, perhaps it was, that imparted a shade of 
more than usual seriousness that evening to the expression 
of his large dark eyes, and of peculiar tenderness to his tone 
and manner. And for many succeeding days, even Nora's 
lynx-eyed jealousy detected no cause for dissatisfaction in any 
part of his conduct ; and more than once Millicent hastened 
him from her side, where he was fain to linger, by re- 
minding him of the lateness of the hour, and the courtesy 
due, on his part, to his entertainers at the rectory. Of the 
fair lady who presided there, Vernon made less and less 
mention in his discourse with Milhcent ; though even now 
and again a few words, a hasty remark, escaped him, that 
might have impressed an indifferent observer with a persua- 



284 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

sion that Lady Octavia's charms and opinions had, at least, 
their due weight with her uncle's handsome curate ; and 
certainly the delightful naivete with which she had betrayed 
her admiration of his fine person and interesting character, 
had by no means depreciated Vernon's estimation of her 
ladyship's refined taste and superior judgment. Lady Oc- 
tavia had also performed, to the life, a few sallies of artless 
indiscretion and amiable enthusiasm, from which the gentle- 
man was not very slow to infer, that she discerned in him 
intellectual as well as personal qualities of a higher order 
than even his affectionate Millicent gave him credit for. 
She, at least, had never administered that incense to his 
vanity which was so delicately, and of course unconsciously, 
offered by the Lady Octavia ; still less had Miss Aboyne, 
in the humble simplicity of her heart, ever dreamt of regret- 
ting for Horace, that Fate (whose agency in human affairs 
she was not indeed wont to acknowledge) had marked out 
for him the obscure lot of a country clergyman. Millicent 
Aboyne could fancy no lot in life so peculiarly favoured. 
Lady Octavia Falkland had allowed Vernon to perceive that 
for him, capable as he was of — she never said exactly what 
— she considered it one of pitiable degradation. And there 
again, though Vernon's best feelings and more serious con- 
viction sided with Millicent, the lurking weakness of his 
nature was grateful to Lady Octavia for her flattering pre- 
possession. 

" Millicent certainly loves me with true affection," once 
or twice soliloquized Vernon; "and yet how strange it is 
that she should have no ambition for me — that she should 
see me with less partial eyes than one to whom, compara- 
tively speaking, I am nothing — at least" — and then broke 
in something very like a sigh — " to whom I can be nothing 
now ; but Milly has seen so little of the world, and Lady 
Octavia so much, and has such extraordinary insight into 
character ! — so much warmth of feeling ! — so much heart !" 
Poor Millicent ! wert thou cold and heartless ? 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 285 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

A FEW days after Doctor Hartop's memorable after-dinner 
communication, Lady Octavia signified to Vernon her in- 
tention of calling that morning at Sea Vale Cottage, which 
condescending attention on her part had been hitherto de- 
layed by his report of Miss Aboyne's increased indisposition, 
and her inability to receive visits. That cause of exclusion 
having ceased to exist, however, he could no longer decline 
for Millicent the proffered courtesy. His own private rea- 
sons for wishing it could be altogether avoided, he did not 
perhaps analyse very curiously ; or rather he assured him- 
self, that solely for Millicent's sake, who would in truth 
gladly have dispensed with the visit, he was thus conside- 
rately reluctant. 

But now Lady Octavia was predetermined ; she would 
go that morning — she would go directly — and Mr. Vernon 
must escort and introduce her. And before he had well 
got through two or three not very neatly-turned sentences 
expressive of his sense of her ladyship's kindness, and so on, 
he found himself with his noble and lovely charge at the 
entrance of Millicent's little cottage. In another minute 
Nora (who, to Vernon's horror and dismay, presented her- 
self with a brown coarse wrapper, tucked-up sleeves, and 
blue coddled arms evidently fresh from the suds) had thrown 
open the door of the small parlour where Millicent was sit- 
ting at work ; and Vernon's ruffled feelings were not 
smoothed to complacency by his quick nervous glance at 
the nature of her occupation, which was that of dividing, 
and of folding with neat arrangement, certain lengths and 
squares of coarse dark household napery. Colouring and 
confusedly, without raising his eyes to the countenances of 
either of the fair ladies, he hurried through the ceremony 
of introduction ; but the calm sweet tone of Millicent's 



286 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIV* 

voice encouraged him to look up, and then the natural 
grace and lady-like self-possession with which she received 
her beautiful visiter, relieved him in part from the uncom- 
fortable feelings which Lady Octavia's courteous ease and 
amiable 'prevenance also contributing to dispel, he found 
himself in a few minutes conversing with his fair com- 
panions with tolerable composure. Still his restless eyes 
glanced ever and anon at the coarse unhemmed towels, and 
then at the direction of Lady Octavia's eyes — and from her 
to Millicent, and again from Millicent to the titled beauty. 
Beautiful indeed the latter was at all times, but strikingly 
so at that moment. Lady Octavia had too much good 
taste, and too much confidence in the unassisted effect of 
her own charms, ever to overload them with fashionable 
frippery. Her costume that morning was a plain white 
muslin robe, setting off to the best advantage the perfect 
symmetry of a figure, about which a large India shawl had 
been carelessly wrapped, and was now suffered to fall in 
picturesque drapery off one shoulder. A large straw hat, 
tied loosely with a broad green riband, also fell back as she 
seated herself, so as to leave nearly uncovered a bright pro- 
fusion of auburn hair, beautifully disarranged by the fresh 
morning wind, which had also communicated a richer glow 
to the peach bloom of her young cheek, and a more spark- 
ling vivacity to her laughing eyes. Vernon saw that Miss 
Aboyne's eyes were rivetted admiringly on her lovely guest. 
His, but the moment before, had been drawing an involun- 
tary comparison between the youthful beauty and his own 
sweet Millicent ; and if, on one hand, he was too forcibly 
struck with the contrast of the opening and the waning 
rose — of the sheltered blossom, and the storm-beat flower — 
he observed also, with affectionate pride, that the interest- 
ing and intellectual loveliness of Miss Aboyne, her simple 
dignity and natural elegance, lost nothing by the closest 
comparison with the brilliant graces and perfect finish of 
the Lady Octavia. 

With what extraordinary celerity will thoughts, deduc- 
tions, conclusions, and endless trains of ideas and images 
succeed each other on the magic lantern of the mind ! 



GRAVJB OF THE BROKEN HEART. SSt 

Vernon's mental mirror still reflected a confused and misty 
portraiture ; that of the Lady Octavia presented far more 
definite and well arranged conceptions. 

On her way to the cottage, she had been weighing inte- 
riorly the comparative amusement to be derived from pa- 
tronizing Miss Aboyne, or breaking her heart— but her 
judgment rather inclined from the scale of patronage. In 
London, or in a full and fashionable neighbourhood, it might 
have been played off « merveille, with high credit to the 
protecting power ; but what could be done in that way at 
Sea Vale ? It would be more in character with that sweet 
seclusion to get up the other entertainment, which, with 
good management, might be wrought into a very pretty ro- 
mance of real life, and last out the whole term of exile, 
leaving the catastrophe to follow-— for Lady Octavia's feel- 
ings were modelled much after the dramatic taste of our 
Gallic neighbours, which interdicts murder on the stage. 
" However," resolved the candid schemer, " I will see this 
Miss Aboyne before I make up my mind." And the brief 
test of a few minutes' intercourse with the unsuspecting 
Millicent, sufficed to settle her ladyship's plan of opera- 
tions. She felt, almost at the first introduction, that Miss 
Aboyne would not be patronised — so set herself to work, 
with a clear conscience, on the other experiment. 

"What a sweet cottage you live in. Miss Aboyne !" ob- 
served Lady Octavia, after a little desultory conversation, 
during which she had been taking a critical survey through 
her glass of the little parlour and all within it. " What a 
sweet cottage !" she exclaimed, rising to complete her ex- 
amination — " So neat ! and so small and pretty ! Do you 
know, Mr. Vernon," turning to Horace, " I quite adore it — 
it puts me so in mind of dear Falkland ; — it's so like our 
poultry-woman's cottage in the park !" Vernon coloured 
and fidgeted ; but Millicent said, smilingly, that she was 
indeed partial to her little home, and gratified that its un- 
pretending prettiness had excited a pleasing association in 
Lady Octavia's mind. " But do you really live here all 
alone, with only that old woman ?" enquired her ladyship, 
with a sweet expression of condoling interest, just sufficing 



288 CHURCttYAKDS.— CHAP. XXIV« 

to make it doubtful whether her impertinence were inten* 
tional, or artlessly indiscreet. " How very odd ! — that is, I 
mean, how very delightful ! — ^and I dare say you have al- 
ways something to do — some useful work or other so supe- 
rior to fashionable, trifling occupations ! Do, pray, go on 
with that you were about when we came in, my dear Miss 
Aboyne. I would not interrupt you for the world — and it 
would really amuse me ; do go on— it's delightful to see 
people so clever and notable. I should like to learn ;" and 
running to the table. Lady Octavia drew a chair close to it, 
and set herself to as grave and curious an inspection of the 
coarse manufacture Millicent had been employed in, as if 
each towel had been an ancient manuscript, and every 
stitch a hieroglyphic, or a Greek character. " Your lady- 
ship will scarcely find any thing in my homely work 
worthy the condescending attention you are pleased to be- 
stow on it," quietly remarked Miss Aboyne, in whose cha- 
racter want of penetration was by no means the concomi- 
tant of simplicity, and whose sense of the ludicrous was 
keen enough to have excited a laugh at the solemn absurd- 
ity of her fair visiter's caprice, if good manners had not re- 
stricted to a smile the outward indication of her feelings. 

"Ah! now I know what this is — I remember all about 
it," triumphantly exclaimed Lady Octavia, looking up from 
the object of her examination, on which, however, one rosy 
palm remained emphatically outspread. " This is hacka- 
back, or shackaback, or some such thing — the same sort of 
stuflT mamma gives for pinafores to our school at Falk- 
land. I wish I was half so clever and industrious as you 
are. Miss Aboyne, but I am afraid Mr. Vernon could tell 
you I am a sad trifling creature." 

" Miss Aboyne's general avocations differ less from your 
ladyship's than those she has selected for this morning's 
amusement," said Vernon, with an ill-concealed irritability 
that tingled to his very finger-ends ; and, nervously starting 
from his chair, he went towards Millicent's music-stand, 
and partly to prove his petulant assertion, as well as to 
withdraw Lady Octavia's attention from the hated work- 
table, he requested her to look over some manuscript Italian 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 289 

music which he hurriedly extracted from the pile. His re- 
quest drew forth an exclamation of surprise from her lady- 
ship, as, approaching the music-stand, and taking the offered 
sheet, she cried, " Italian ! — -you sing Italian, then. Miss 
Aboyne ? I suppose Mr. Vernon has been your teacher ?" 
Millicent looked towards Horace with arch meaning in her 
eyes ; but taking the reply to himself, and speaking with 
generous warmth, and a countenance glowing with grateful 
acknowledgment, he said — " No, indeed ! — ^your ladyship 
does me too much honour ; I am indebted to Miss Aboyne, 
and to one who was equally beloved and respected by her 
and by myself, for all my knowledge of Italian — for every 
acquisition I most value — for more than I ever can repay." 
There was a general pause. Lady Octavia wished she 
could have retracted a question which had excited feelings 
of a very different nature from those she designed to in- 
sinuate, and had drawn from Vernon so spirited an avowal 
of them. But the slight inadvertence led, at least, to one 
satisfactory conclusion. 

Vernon's honourable warmth and affectionate allusion to 
her beloved father, touched the spring of deepest emotion in 
Millicent's bosom, and subverted in a moment the outwork 
of calm self-possession, which had maintained itself so suc- 
cessfully, and in truth so easily, against the oblique aim of 
Lady Octavia's puny missiles ; and the deep flush that now 
mantled her before-colourless cheek, and the tears that 
swam in her dove-like eyes, were evidence unquestionable 
that Miss Aboyne had a heart, and one not altogether or- 
ganized of " impenetrable stuff." 

To do Lady Octavia Falkland justice, however, she did 
not meditate actual murder, on or off the stage, or any 
thing indeed but a little harmless temporary sport with the 
happiness of the two persons so long and solemnly contract- 
ed. She merely designed to assert the omnipotence of her 
own charms, by convincing Miss Aboyne that she had it in 
her power to make Vernon faithless to his early vows ; and, 
with regard to Vernon himself, she only intended to give 
him a clear insight of the disadvantages which must attend 
his union with Miss Aboyne, and a despairing glimpse of 
25 



290 CHllKCHYARDS.— 'CHAr. XXIV. 

the superlative felicity in store for the fortunate mortal who 
should awaken an interest in her own fair bosom. With 
guarded caution, also, she charitably inclined to indulge 
him with an experimental taste of la belle passion, such as 
it might be between sympathetic souls of a superior order ; 
and then, having so far generously enlightened him as to 
the capabilities of his own heart, to leave him and his be- 
trothed to complete their stupid union in their own dull 
way, and be " as happy as possible ever afterwards." 

Millicent did not again see Vernon till late in the morn- 
ing which succeeded that of Lady Octavia's visit ; but she 
received him then with looks that beamed a welcome even 
more affectionate than that with which they were ever 
wont to greet him. His warm tribute to her dear father's 
memory, so spontaneously uttered the preceding day, in re- 
ply to Lady Octavia's uncivil observation, had been balm to 
her heart, and her grateful feelings were ready to overflow 
at his appearance. But he approached and greeted her 
with an unusual degree of coldness and constraint, and 
there was a cloud upon his brow, and an abstractedness in 
his manner, that quickly and effectually repressed the ex- 
pression of a sensibility too tender and profound not to be 
keenly susceptible of the slightest repulse. 

For some time few words passed between them. Vernon 
seated himself beside Millicent at the table" where she was 
finishing some pencil sketches, and usefully employed him- 
self in cutting up her pencils into shavings, and her Indian- 
rubber into minute fractions. At last — " Milly," said he, 
abruptly, " what can induce you to waste your time about 
such abominable work as you were employed in when Lady 
Octavia called yesterday ? — and to have it all spread out in~ 
your sitting-room, too ! — such vile, hideous Htter !" 

" My dear Horace !" mildly replied Millicent, looking 
up from her sketch with an expression of surprise, not un- 
mingled with a more painful feeling — " my dear Horace ! 
do you forget that, circumstanced as we are, my time is 
much more wasted in such an occupation as this, than it 
was in the homely task you found me engaged in yester- 
day ? You know, Horace," she added, half-smiling, as she 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 291 

bent again over her drawing, " that Nora and I are very 
busy now providing for our future household comforts ? But 
I will allow, such work as mine was yesterday, is not orna- 
mental to a sitting-room ; you shall not find the little par- 
lour so disgraced again, dear Horace." 

The sweetness of the answer was irresistible ; but though 
it made Vernon heartily ashamed of the weakness which 
laid him open to such paltry annoyance as that he had just 
made cause of complaint to Millicent, it could not immedi- 
ately tranquillize his irritable mood, or charm him into for- 
getfulness of those tormenting thoughts and comparisons 
Lady Octavia had been too successful in exciting. Yet 
was he so sensible of their un worthiness, that he hated him- 
self for the involuntary and unsuspected treason ; and his 
heart smote him more sharply when, a few minutes after- 
wards, Millicent spoke of Lady Octavia's beauty with such 
unaffected admiration, as testified, had such proof been 
wanting, how incapable was the genuine humility and no- 
bleness of her nature of envious self-comparison with the 
youthful loveliness of another. " I never saw such hair as 
Lady Octavia's ! — such beautiful hair !" she observed, pro- 
ceeding with her drawing and her eulogium. 

" But / have, Milly, and much more beautiful," asserted 
Vernon, edging his chair nearer to hers ; and in a twink- 
ling, before her enquiring look had met the tender meaning 
in his eyes, he had dexterously removed her close mourn- 
ing-cap, and plucked out the comb that fastened up a profu- 
sion of the finest hair in the world, black and glossy as the 
raven's wing, which, thus released from confinement, fell in 
redundant masses over her neck and shoulders, waving 
downward almost to the ground as she sat, and, half shroud- 
ing her face and figure in its cloud-like beauty, invested 
with somewhat of celestial character the touching loveliness 
of a complexion pure and transparent, and almost colourless 
as alabaster, and eyes of the dark violet's own hue, (" the 
dim brooding violet* of the dell,") now upraised to Vernon 
with an expression of innocent surprise and not offended 
feeling. 

" What a sin it is to hide such hair as this, Millv !" con- 



292 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIV. 

tinued her lover, lifting aside one of its heavy tresses from 
her now smiling and blushing face, on which he gazed with 
a sudden and almost surprised conviction that his own Mil- 
licent was a thousand times lovelier than Lady Octavia ; 
and the evidently admiring fondness with which his looks 
were fixed upon her, did not lessen the suffusion of her 
cheek, though it quickly brought tears into her modest eyes, as 
they fell bashfully under their long black lashes. There is no 
such cosmetic as happiness — no such beautifier as the con- 
sciousness of pleasing, where we wish to please ; and never 
was woman's heart indifferent to the gratification of being 
even personally pleasing to the object of her affections, what- 
ever some superior-minded disagreeables may pretend to the 
contrary. Of late, some half-defined idea had possessed 
itself (she scarce knew how) of Millicent's humble heart, 
that though she was still dear to Horace, not only for her 
own sake, but for her father's, and the remembrance of 
" auld lang-syne," she had no longer any personal attrac- 
tions for him ; and she had felt the contrast between her- 
self and Lady Octavia, though, in her simple integrity, 
drawing from it no conclusion more painful or uneasy than 
that Horace must feel it also. But that sudden action — - 
those few words — and, more than all, that look of his, con- 
veyed blissful assurance that she was still beloved as in days 
gone by — still beheld with eyes as fondly partial. Vernon 
was quite right. His own Millicent was, at that moment a 
thousand times more beautiful than the youthful and bril- 
liant Lady Octavia. 

It would extend this little history far beyond its pre- 
scribed limits, to continue a minute detail of those progres- 
sive circumstances which more immediately influenced the 
happiness and interests of Horace and Millicent during the 
remainder of Dr. Hartop and Lady Octavia's sojourn at 
Sea Vale. The leading incidents must suffice to keep un- 
broken the thread of the narration. Miss Aboyne failed not 
(however disinclined) to return Lady Octavia Falkland's 
visit within a few days after that honour had been conferred 
on her ; neither did Lady Octavia fail, during their tete-d. 
tete in her luxurious boudoir, to call Millicent's attention to 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 293 

sundry objects, affording indubitable proof — in the shape of 
copied music, verses, and sketches for albums, &;c., &;c., — 
that the whole of those long mornings, during which she 
saw little, and occasionally nothing, of Horace, were not 
devoted to the serious duties which she had been fain to per- 
suade herself occupied at least the greater part of them. 
Had any lingering doubt still clung about her heart, Lady 
Octavia's considerate assurance (as the visiter rose to re- 
tire) was intended to remove it effectually. " I assure you 
I am quite shocked. Miss Aboyne," she said, with the sweet- 
est deprecating manner in the world, " at monopolizing so 
much of Mr. Vernon's time ; but he is so kind and obliging ! 
— and then, you know, those men are such lounging crea- 
tures of habit ; when he is once comfortably established on 
that otloman^'' pointing to one at the foot of her harp, 

" there's no driving him away, though I often tell him" 

With what arguments her ladyship so conscientiously essay- 
ed to " drive'^ Vernon to his duty. Miss Aboyne gave her 
no time to explain : for even Milhcent's gentle spirit was 
moved by the obvious malice and intentional impertinence 
of the insinuation ; and rather haughtily interrupted Lady 
Octavia with an assurance, that she arrogated to herself no 
right whatever over Mr. Vernon's disposal of his time, which 
must be well employed in her ladyship's service, she made 
her farewell curtsy, and returned to her own solitary home. 
Lady Octavia's eye followed her to the door, with an expres- 
sion that said, " So — ' let the stricken deer go weep' ; " and 
that shrewd meaning implied something very near the truth. 
The arrow had struck home. 

From that morning, Miss Aboyne considered herself ab- 
solved from the duty of returning any other of Lady Octa- 
via's visits — who, on her part, becoming sensible that they 
did not co-operate as she had expected, with her amiable 
purpose, soon discontinued them altogether. But the wor- 
thy doctor, desirous of testifying, in the most flattering man- 
ner, his gracious approbation of Vernon's choice, made a 
magnanimous effort to honour the object of it, by paying his 
personal respects to her at her own dwelling, it is more than 
probable, with the benevolent intention of bestowing on her 
25* 



294 CHrRCHYARUS.-^CHAI*. XXttr. 

a few of those valuable hints on domestic economy, and the 
rearing up of a large family, with which, at all convenient 
seasons, he was wont to favour his fortunate and grateful 
curate. But adverse circumstances diverted from Millicent 
the good fortune intended for her, the anticipation of which 
(for Horace had prepared her for the visit) had in truth 
grievously disquieted her. Carefully enveloped in a warm 
roquelaure, (for though the noonday sun was scorching, the 
morning had been showery,) escorted by Mr. Vernon on 
one side, and his own valet, with a parapluie, on the other, 
the doctor (having previously fortified himself with a basin 
of vermicelli soup) was wheeled in his Bath chair through 
the village of Sea Vale to Miss Aboyne's cottage — or, more 
properly speaking, to the garden gate leading to the little 
dwelling, for there his further progress was arrested by an 
unforeseen and insurmountable obstacle. The humble gate- 
way was not wide enough, by at least a foot, to admit the 
doctor's equipage ; (it would scarcely have afforded ingress 
to his own portly person ;) and the little gravel walk still 
flooded by recent showers, was impassable to the rheumatic 
gouty feet that trode " delicately" even on Brussels carpets.^ 
Moreover, on casting his eyes despairingly towards the 
cottage door, at which stood Miss Aboyne, (who, on perceiv- 
ing the dilemma of her honourable and reverend visiter, had 
come forward thus courteously,) he conceived a well-found-^ 
ed suspicion, that even arrived at that inner portal, he should 
fail in effecting an entrance ; wherefore like a true philoso- 
pher, accommodating himself to circumstances, he gave two 
or three prelusive hemSj with a view of complimenting the 
future bride, (even from that inconvenient distance,) with 
the speech he had conned in readiness. Already, to Ver- 
non's horror and Millicent's dismay, he had begun, " My 
dear Madam ! it is with infinite satisfaction that I do my- 
self the honour" when a heavy cloud, which, unobserved 

by the pre-occupied divine, had been gathering over head^ 
began to discharge its liquid stores so suddenly, that the 
faithful valet, who waited not his master's commands ta 
face about, gave the necessary word to the officiating foat- 



4IP 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 295 

man ; and the Bath chair, with its reverend contents, un- 
der shelter of the parapluie, was safely wheeled into the 
rectory hall, before Millicent had well recovered her alarm 
in the uninvaded sanctuary of her little parlour. 



296 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXV. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

Two months and more than half a third had passed away, 
since that May morning (almost the latest of the month), a 
few days prior to the strangers' arrival at the rectory, when 
Vernon had won from Millicent her unreluctant promise to 
be indissolubly united with him that day three months. 
What changes had taken place since then — not in the for- 
tunes and apparent prospects of the affianced pair, but in 
their feelings, habits, and relative circumstances ! Vernon 
had gradually absented himself more and more from the cot- 
tage ; for some time excusing himself to Millicent, and to 
his own heart, on various pretences, which, however, he felt 
would not bear the test of investigation. By little and lit- 
tle he discontinued even those poor unsatisfactory apolo- 
gies — and Millicent was best content that it should be so ; 
for even her blindness (the wilful blindness of affection) was 
dispelled at last, and she felt within herself, and knew to a 
certainty in her own heart, that she should never be the 
wife of Horace Vernon. Yet she did not, for one single 
moment, suspect the sincerity of his intentions ; nor doubt 
that, when the illusion was dispersed (she knew it to be an 
illusion) which now warped him from his better self, he 
would return to himself and to her, with bitter self-upbraid- 
ing, and passionate avowals of his own culpable weakness, 
and honourable anxiety to fulfil his engagements with her. 
Nay, she doubted not that she was still dear to him — she 
scarcely doubted that the best affections of his heart were 
still hers, however appearances might have led to a different 
conclusion — but she more than doubted whether Horace Ver- 
non and Millicent Aboyne could ever be again as they had 
been to each other, therefore she felt in her heart that it 
was better they should not be united. Yet, for all this, 
there was no change in her manner to Vernon — scarcely 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 297 

any perceptible change — only, perhaps, in lieu of the sweet, 
familiar cheerfulness with which she had been wont to carry 
herself towards him, there was a shade of deeper serious- 
ness, of more affecting tenderness, in her deportment, such 
as might have betokened, to a curious eye and a keen ob- 
server, something of those feelings with which the heart of 
one bound in secret on some far journey, may be supposed, 
on the eve of departure, to yearn towards a beloved friend, 
still unsuspicious of the approaching separation. 

Millicent's generous confidence in Vernon's honour (in 
his honourable intentions at least) was not misplaced. Ne- 
ver for a moment had he harboured a thought of violating 
his engagements with her ; and his heart, as she had been 
fain to beheve, still turned to her as towards its real home 
at every lucid interval (the term is not inappropriate) of his 
spell- bound infatuation ; and on more than one late occa- 
sion, when some accidental circumstance, or thought sug- 
gested by his good angel, had aroused his slumbering 
conscience and better feelings, he had almost deceived the 
poor Millicent into reviving hope and trust by an overflow- 
ing tenderness of manner more apparently impassioned than 
in the early days of their youthful attachment. In some 
such mood of mind he took his way towards the cottage 
about the period last mentioned, a fortnight before the first 
of September, the day he and Millicent had long anticipa- 
ted as that which was to unite them indissolubly. For 
some time past, however, it had been mutually understood, 
rather than arranged, between them, that their marriage 
should not take place till after the departure of the strang- 
ers, whose stay at the rectory was not likely to be pro- 
longed beyond the first week in September. That period 
now drew near — and Vernon remembered that it did, with 
a strange mixture of discordant feelings. He felt like one 
who has been long living, as in a dream, under the influence 
of some strange illusion, which was about to break away 
and leave him to the sober realities of his appointed lot. 
That morning, one of those trivial occurrences which often 
lead to important results in human affairs, tended very ma- 
terially to hasten the dispersion of his airy visions. He 



CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXV^ 

had been present — ^for the tinfie forgotten— when the letter- 
bag was brought in to Doctor Hartop, who dehvered out 
from its contents one from Falkland Park to Lady Octavia ; 
it was from one of her sisters, and the matter so interesting, 
so redolent of present pleasures, and fetes in preparation, of 
noble and fashionable guests arrived and expected, (fash- 
ionable men more especially, some of whom were alluded to 
in slang terms of familiarity, sanctioned by the modern 
maniere d'etre of higTuhxedi rather than weZ/-bred young la- 
dies,) that the fair reader for once gave way to the fulness 
of her heart, (seldom was her ladyship guilty of such vulgar 
unreserve,) and poured out its feelings into the somewhat 
unsympathizing ear of her reverend uncle, reading to him, 
as she proceeded with her letter, detached portions of Lady 
Jane's tantalizing communications, which so stimulated her 
impatient longings, that she ended with, "And now you 
are so well, dear uncle, why need we stay a minute longer 
at this horrid place ? I could not survive another month 
of it." 

What might have been the doctor's reply to this very 
energetic appeal was known only to the fair appellant ; 
for Vernon, taking advantage of the open door, and being 
entirely overlooked, had slipped quietly away ; and with 
Lady Octavia's words still tingling in his ears, was in two 
minutes on his way to the cottage, and to Millicent. In a 
strange tumult of feeling he bent his steps thither — of sur- 
prise and mortification, and bitter self-humiliation, and re- 
proach ; other thoughts by degrees stole in, like oil upon 
the troubled waves— ^thoughts still composed of mingled ele- 
ments, painful and humbling, yet healing withal — of Milli- 
cent and all she had been to him — faithful, patient, and un- 
complaining, where there had been so great cause to excite 
an accusing spirit — nobly unsuspicious of wrong — incapable 
of envy — ^inaccessible to mean jealousy, though not insensi- 
ble — Oh no : he felt she was not ! — of neglect, which, to look 
back upon, wrung him to the soul : and still, still, ill as he 
deserved it of her, his own — his loving Millicent — his better 
angel — his future wife — and well should the devotion of all 
his life to come strive to compensate for his temporary dere* 



tJRAVt: OF THE BROKEN HEART. 299 

liction ! Then came across him a shuddering recollection 
of the increased languor and feebleness, which, on two or 
three late occasions, he had observed and spoken of to her- 
self ; but she had made light of his question, and he had not 
dared to have recourse to Nora. Nora and he had, indeed, 
by tacit consent, for some time avoided speaking to each 
other ; and if they chanced to encounter, Vernon had hur- 
ried past, without raising his eyes to a face where he would 
have been sure to read searching accusation. 

All these thoughts were busy in his heart as he pursued 
his way to the cottage, and — for they had melted him to a 
tenderness of which he wished to subdue the outward indi- 
cation — ^by the longest road — that which ran along the back 
of the village street and the cottage garden — the very lane 
where, close by the honeysuckle arbour, in that very garden, 
he had been arrested the first evening of his arrival at Sea 
Vale, by the sweet sounds of Millicent's voice, mingled with 
the manly tones of her father's. And there again Vernon's 
heart smote him ; his parting promise to his departing 
friend ! — how had it been fulfilled? "But it is not too late, 
thank God !" he exclaimed aloud; and starting onward, he 
quickened his step towards the orphan's dwelling, as if to 
hasten the ratification of his vows, and take her to his heart 
then and for ever. But, at the turning of the green lane, 
he was overtaken by his old medical friend Mr. Henderson, 
who, without slackening the pace of his ambling pony, 
merely said in passing — ■" Good-morrow, Mr. Vernon ! You 
are on your way to the cottage, I see ; you will find Miss 
Aboyne better to-day." 

" Better ! has Miss Aboyne been ill ? Pray, sir ! Mr. Hen- 
derson !"— -and Vernon starting forward, caught the pony's 
bridle-rein in the eagerness of his alarm. 

The good apothecary looked at him with grave surprise, 
as he answered, with some severity of tone, " Is it possible 
you can be ignorant of the very precarious state of Miss 
Aboyne's health, Mr. Vernon ! But seeing her, as of 
course you do, daily, you may not have been struck with 
the great personal change which has been for some time 
perceptible to me." Alas ! many days had passed of late 



300 CHURCHYARDS. (5HAP. XXV. 

during which Vernon had found no leisure hour for Milli- 
cent, and this was now the third day since he had seen her. 
How the fact, as if he were then first aware of it, struck 
home to his conscience ! — and with what miserable appre- 
hension he questioned and cross-questioned the apothecary ! 
and drew from him an explicit avowal, that although he did 
not consider Miss Aboyne's case by any means hopeless, it 
was so critical that her life hung as it were by a single 
thread, of which the slightest agitation, the most trifling 
imprudence, or any untoward circumstance, might dissever 
the frail tenure. " And to be free with you, Mr. Vernon," 
the old man continued, laying his hand on Vernon's shoulder, 
as he spoke with glistening eyes and a more unsteady voice 
— for he had known Millicent from her childhood, and felt 
for her an almost paternal interest, which had not been di- 
minished by certain lately-held conferences with the indig- 
nant Nora, whose tale, however exaggerated, tahied but too 
well with his own preconceived suspicions — " to be free 
with you, I will add, that I fear, I greatly fear. Miss Aboyne's 
present malady proceeds as much from moral as physical 
causes, and that you will do well to shield her, with the 
most watchful tenderness, from every disquietude it may be 
in your power to avert. That gentle spirit of hers, and that 
tender frame, were not made to * bide all blasts,' Mr. Ver- 
non. Take care of her ; she is well worth keeping ;" and 
so saying, the old man extricated the rein from Vernon's 
hold, by quickly spurring on his pony, and was soon be- 
yond the reach of further questioning, leaving the questioner 
still rooted to the spot, with food enough for bitter reflec- 
tion to keep him there — how long he knew not — before he 
recovered himself sufficiently to enter the cottage. 

The porch door stood open, as did that of the little par- 
lour ; but the room was empty. Millicent had been recent- 
ly there, however ; for her handkerchief lay on the table 
beside a portfolio and some loose sheets of music. Throw- 
ing himself into the chair she had occupied, Vernon sat for 
some moments, his eyes fixed with unconscious gaze on the 
objects before him, till, half rousing himself from that ab- 
straction, he began listlessly to turn them over, and at last 



^RAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 301 

his attention was arrested by a half-torn sheet that lay 
apart, with Miliicent's handkerchief. The paper was wet. 
More than one drop— -from what source he too well di- 
vined— ^had recently fallen on the words of a song which 
he well remembered having formerly given to Millicent, 
with a laughing injunction to make herself perfect in the 
old ditty against her day should come. The words ran 
thus — a quaint " auld-warld" conceit* 

" Unhappy lady ! lay aside 

Thy myrtle crown, thy robes of pride ; 

A cypress stole befits thee now, 

A willow garland for thy brow. 

For thou art changed, and changed is he 
Who pledged thee love's first fealty ; 
A lover's pledge ! a lover's vow ! 
And where is he ? and what art thou ? 

At younger beauty's feet, with sighs 
And silken oaths, thy false love lies: 
A thing forsaken — that thou art, 
With faded form, and broken heart. 

And now, poor heart I be wise, and crave 
Of earth no guerdon but a grave — 
And heirk ! ' ding ! dong !' that timely bell 
{Their wedding peal) shall ring thy knell, 

And lay thee by the church-path side, 
When forth he leads his bonny bride > 
And then, perhaps, he'll cry 'Adieu, 
My fond first love I — so passing true V '* 

Other drops had mingled with those yet glistening on the 
lines of that old song, before Vernon (still holding the pa- 
per) let fall his arms upon the table, and bowing down his 
head, concealed his face within them. He had continued 
thus for some time, and, so deep was his abstraction, 
26 



302 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXV. 

that he was perfectly unconscious of an approaching foot» 
step, or that he was no longer alone, till a soft hand touched 
his, and looking up, he met the dewy eyes of his wronged 
Millicent fixed upon him with an expression of angelic pity. 
That look set wide at once the flood-gates of his before al- 
most uncontrollable emotion, and starting up, he caught her 
to his bosom with a passionate suddenness, that, accompa- 
nied by half-inteUigible words of love and self-reproach, al- 
most overpowered her gentle and timid spirit. But soon 
recovering from the momentary agitation, she mildly 
soothed him to composure ; and said, half smiling, as she 
softly drew the old song from his unconscious hand — 
" Dear Horace ! I never doubted your heart — ^I never feared 
desertion." " Bless you for that ! Millicent, my beloved ! 
my only love ! — but can you — can you forgive ?" " That 
you have sometimes forgotten me of late, Horace ?" " No, 
not forgotten — not forgotten, as Heaven shall judge me, 
Millicent ! — but — I have been bewildered — infatuated — 
mad — ^I know not what ; and yet my heart was here ; nay, 
nay, look not incredulous, Milly ! — here — and here only, as 
I hope for — and did you not say you never doubted that ? — 
Repeat it, my beloved ! — tell me again you never doubted 
me, my generous, noble-minded love!" "I never doubted 
your affection for me, Horace !" repeated Millicent, with 
tender seriousness ;— " but now, my dear friend ! sit down 
beside me, and let us both be calm and talk together quietly 

and unreservedly, as it befits friends to" " Friends ! no 

more than friends, Milly 1 is it come to that ?" vehemently 
exclaimed Horace, with a reproachful look. "And what 
name more sacred, more endearing?" she rejoined, in tones 
less faltering than before — " Friends here, and hereafter, 
and forever, in that better place where, sooner or later, what- 
ever is reserved for us here, I trust we shall meet again, and 
be as the angels in heaven" "And here — here, Milli- 
cent ! are we to be no more than friends — Have you for- 
gotten, that within two little weeks you would have been 
my wife, if those fatal strangers ! — but they will be gone 

before three weeks are over, and then" "and then, dear 

Horace ! it will be time enough to talk of — of" — our mar- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 303 

riage day, she would have added, but her voice suddenly 
failed, and with a quivering lip she turned her face away 
from him, till the momentary weakness was overcome. 

It was soon mastered ; and then, once more raising to his 
her not unmoistened eyes, she continued, "I have been 
wishing, earnestly wishing, for such an opportunity — such 
an opening as this, dear Horace ! — to pour out my whole 
heart to you — to reconcile you to your own, in case of an 
event, for which, I fear, I think, you may be entirely un- 
prepared, and which I know you would feel too painfully, 
if now, while we have time, we did not exchange mutual 
confidence and forgiveness for any wrongs fancied or " 

But she was passionately interrupted — 

"Now! — while we have time! — an event for which I 
am unprepared ! — Millicent ! Milhcent ! what mean you ? — 
But I deserve this torture !" — and grasping both her hands 
in his with convulsive violence, he gazed in her face with 
such a look of fearful enquiry as wellnigh unnerved the 
poor Millicent, and rendered her incapable of reply. 

But, making a strong effort for composure, she spoke 
again — at first only a few soothing and affectionate words, 
to still the agitation that excited her tenderest compassion ; 
and then, impressed with the seriousness and solemnity of 
the task she had imposed upon herself, she went on, with 
quiet firmness, to tell him of what had been so long upon 
her heart, though till that moment she had not found cou- 
rage to impart it to him — time or opportunity^ she might 
have said — but that would have sounded accusingly, and 
Millicent lived only to bless and to console. 

" My dear Horace," she continued, " hear me patiently — 
hear me calmly — for my sake do so. For some time past I 
have felt a conviction that I should not live to be your wife ; 
—nay, nay, start not so fearfully at these words — look not 
so shocked, so self-accusing, Horace ! — But for you — but 
for your care and kindness, I should long ago have followed 
my dear father. But you kept me here ; and I thought 
that it was God's will that I should live, and become the 
companion of your life. That thought was very sweet to 
me, dear Horace ! — too sweet, perhaps, for it made life too 



304 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXV% 

dear to me. But since — of late, as I have told you, I have 
had reason to believe that such was not God's pleasure- — 
Nay, let me — let me speak on now, Horace ! now that I am 
strengthened for the trial ! — and do not, do not think, dear- 
est ! — for I interpret that look — that he has stricken me by 
the hand I loved. I was not made for duration, Horace ! — 
You know my mother died early of consumption — I was not 
well before my father's death ; and that great shock ! — so 
sudden — and " 

" And I have done the rest ! — I, wretch that I am ! — Tell 
me so, Milly ! — tell me so at once, rather than stab me with 
such mockery of comfort ;" and, no longer able to restrain 
himself, even for her sake, he started from her side, and 
paced the room in agitation, that she wisely suffered to sub- 
side before she attempted to resume her affecting subject. 
" But it is not too late, Millicent ! — angel ! — thou wilt yet be 
spared, that I may repay with life-long tenderness thy 
matchless excellence ;" and then, melted to softer feelings, 
he flung himself beside her, and, clasping her to him, gave 
way to a passion of womanish tears. 

When both had in some measure recovered composure, 
Vernon was the first to speak again, though in an agitated 
whisper : — " Tell me, my beloved ! Oh, tell me, you will 
try to live for my sake ! — I know, I see how blind I have 
been — ^how madly blind to your increased indisposition. 
Fool ! idiot ! that I was ! I heard of it, for the first time, 
this morning, from Mr. Henderson ; but he told me — he 
said — indeed, indeed, Milly ! our good friend thinks, that, 
with care and watchfulness, all will go well again. And 
such care !- — such watchfulness as I shall take now ! — Oh 
God! Oh God!" 

And now their tears mingled ; for Millicent's rolled fast 
down her pale cheeks, and it was many minutes before she 
again found utterance, and that her secret prayer for strength 
was answered, and she was able to speak to him words of 
peace and comfort. 

" I know^ — I know," she faltered out at last, " that I may 
yet recover, if such be God's pleasure, my Horace ! for in 
His hands are life and death. But, my beloved \ if you 



. GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 305 

would endeavour to reconcile yourself to a contrary event, I 
should be well content to go, for methinks the bitterness 
of death is past ; and — do not call it unkind, Horace ! — ^I 
doubt whether I could ever again, under any circumstances, 
be so happy in this world as I have been. I feel as if 
the capabilities of earthly happiness and usefulness were 
dead within me — as if I had already left my youth and 
prime of days at an immeasurable distance ; and such a 
companion would ill suit you, Horace ! would ill assort 
with your buoyant spirit, and unsubdued energies. But 
God's will be done ! He will order all as is best for us ; 
and if I live, and you continue to wish I should become 

your wife " 

" If I continue to wish it ! — Oh, Millicent !" 
" Then, then, dear Horace ! — I would only say — May 
God bless our union ! — but if it is not to be, I do not 
tell you to remember me ; I know you will do that ; but I 
would bid you, for my sake, torture not your own heart 
with self-upbraiding. Assign all — the ordering of all — as 
indeed is only fitting, to the will of Providence ; — and — and 
if my poor Nora should be unjust or unreasonable in her 
grief, bear with her, dear Horace ; and be kind to her still, 
for my sake. This little dwelling ! — I have taken some or- 
der about it, and her. The long-expected living will be 
yours at last ; — and then I have so arranged it — you will 
not disapprove it, Horace ? — that this cottage may be let or 
sold, and so furnish a provision for my faithful Nora. For- 
give me, that I pain you thus, dear friend ! — and yet, a few 
words more. Oh ! my dear Horace ! be watchful of your- 
self. We have all much need to pray against the deceit- 
fulness of our own hearts. The world and its ways would 
cheat you, Horace ! for I know your heart. Oh ! I have 
longed thus to pour out the fulness of mine — my whole spi- 
rit, if it might be — in one appeal to yours :" — And, elevated 
by the solemnity of that appeal, and by the fervour of her 
enthusiasm, Millicent's voice became full and firm, though 
its tones were deep as if sent up from the bosom's inmost 
sanctuary, and her countenance was irradiated by more 
than earthly beauty, as, clasping her pale thin hands to- 
26* 






306 CHURCHYAR&S. CHAP. XXV* 

gether, she looked up in Vernon's face, and slowly articula- 
ted, " Above all, my father's friend J mine own dear friend I 
so run the race that is yet before you, that, though mine is 
first finished, we may meet at last in the land where there 
shall be no more separation." The awful pathos of that 
affecting prayer, though it thrilled through the heart of 
Yernon, subdued his impatient spirit and agitated nerves to 
solemn stillness. He attempted no audible answer — words 
would have been powerless to express his feelings ; but 
Millicent felt and understood all the assurance she desired 
to receive, in the tears that moistened her clasped hands, as,, 
taking them between his, he bent his face upon them in 
the long and profound silence that succeeded to his violent 
emotion. 

Horace Vernon laid his head that night upon the pillow 
by many degrees " a sadder and a wiser man" than he had 
arisen from it in the morning. But sleep came not to 
his eyelids, nor rest to his spirit, till utter exhaustion pro- 
cured him, towards morning, a short interval of troubled 
slumber. 

Lady Octavia was not long in perceiving the decline, or 
rather cessation, of her influence over Vernon. But attri- 
buting his defection to resentment at the unguarded sentence^ 
which had escaped her in his presence on the perusal of 
Lady Jane's letter, she only read in it the indication of a 
more profound passion than she had yet felt certain of 
having inspired him with. But after a few days of conde- 
scending sweetness, fruitlessly expended in manceuvres to 
lure back the startled quarry, she began to suspect that, 
whatever was the cause of Vernon's brusque retreat from 
her boudoir, and of his subsequent refroidissement, he was 
now detained from her by a return to his first allegiance, of 
which her ladyship had by no means calculated the possi- 
bility, while the light of her attractions still blazed in com* 
petition with the pale star of Millicent* 

Piqued at this discovery. Lady Octavia's heart waa 
forthwith vehemently set on what would otherwise (in. 
the near prospect of departure from Sea Vale) have been 
a matter of comparative indifference to her — the recovery 



k 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 307 

of her former ascendency ; and, nothing daunted by first 
failures, she worked at her purpose with all the energies 
of those great co-operating powers — woman's will and 
woman's wit, supported by woman's perseverance. But 
even those combined forces had wellnigh experienced sig- 
nal defeat, so entirely had Vernon's revived affection and 
reawakened fears for Millicent, and his bitterly compunc- 
tious feelings, engrossed every faculty of his soul since that 
notable morning when the trifling incident of Lady Octa- 
via's momentary incaution had been so influential in arous- 
ing him from his long illusion. Influential as it had been^ 
however, in the first instance, by sending him forth in that 
mood of mortified and bitter feeling, which, rather than any 
worthier cause, had impelled his first hasty steps towards 
the long-deserted cottage, the better thoughts that, in his 
way thither, had gradually superseded his previous irrita- 
tion — his short but startling conference with the good apoth- 
ecary — and last, and above all, that affecting interview 
with Millicent, had so effaced all recollection of the paltry 
annoyance which had originally disturbed him, that it was 
first called to his recollection by the almost deprecating 
tenderness of Lady Octavia's voice and looks, when she 
found an opportunity of addressing him unobserved ; and 
that was not very speedily obtained, for, except at the din- 
ner hour, and some short portion of the after evening con- 
ceded to Dr. Hartop's claims, Horace scarcely absented 
himself from the cottage for many days, after that which 
had so effectually aroused him from his long and culpable 
infatuation. Before the little casement of Millicent's cham- 
ber was unclosed, he was looking up towards it as he paced 
the walk beneath with nervous impatience ; and even his 
conscience-struck reluctance to confront Nora, was over* 
come by his anxiety to obtain from her the first and most 
exact report of her gentle mistress. A painful surprise 
awaited Vernon the first morning he was thus early at the 
cottage. Long after the little casement above had been 
partly opened, and he had seen Nora pass and repass before 
it, as if preparing to assist Millicent at her toilet, he had 
awaited for some time in the garden — in the dear old at- 



308 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXV. 

bour, and lastly, in the sitting-room, in expectation of Miss 
Aboyne coming down to breakfast. But finding at length 
that there were not even any symptoms of preparations for 
the morning meal, he was driven to enquire the reason of 
such unusual delay, and then learned, with a pang that 
wrung him to the heart's core, (for Nora spared not to speak 
home,) that, for some time past, Millicent had been too 
much enfeebled to rise at her accustomed hour, and now 
habitually took her breakfast in bed. The emotion with 
which Vernon listened to this startling corroboration of hi» 
fears, still trembled in the tone of his voice as he hurriedly 
remarked — " Why Nora ! surely it was not so long ago, 
that when I breakfasted here last " 

" Oh, no ! Mr. Horace ; not so long, to be sure," inter* 
rupted the faithful servant, with a look that spoke, and was 
meant to speak, keenest reproach ; " not more than a fort- 
night maybe, or perhaps three weeks — no time at all — only 
people may be dead and buried, and forgotten too, you 
know, Mr. Horace, in less than that. The last time you 
were to have breakfasted here, you were so thoughtful as to 
tell Miss Aboyne over-night that you would come next 
morning ; so the dear child would rise and make me dress 
her to be ready for you — she was too ill then to dress 
herself, poor heart ! — though I told her it was ill spending 
her precious life upon one that little deserved it of her." — 
" Little, indeed !" groaned Horace, as he turned abruptly 
from Nora and the cottage, to breakfast where and with 
what appetite he might. 

But Horace Vernon's versatile feelings and unstable 
nature — characteristics often leading to results as fatal as 
those consequent on the indulgence of violent and evil 
passions, were as easily elated as depressed — and, in truth, 
his mind was not so constituted as to be long capable of 
enduring or retaining a deeply painful impression. By 
degrees he deluded himself into the belief that he had been 
too seriously alarmed, though not too soon awakened. And 
indeed his now tenderly unremitting watchfulness of the 
drooping Millicent was soon rewarded by such a reviving 
brightness of spirit in her, as in a manner reflected itself 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 300 

outwardly on the fair and fragile frame which at all times 
sympathized but too faithfully with the fine essence it en- 
shrined. It is true, Millicent herself replied only by a grate- 
ful smile, or an evasive word — not always uttered with a 
steady voice — to Vernon's fond entreaties that she would 
acknowledge herself to be regaining strength — that she 
would bless him with some assurance that might confirm 
his sanguine hopes. But Mr. Henderson's manner and re- 
plies were more decidedly encouraging. Even Nora began 
to look less coldly, and by degrees more cheerfully, when 
he encountered her in his frequent visits ; and at Icist, one 
evening as he was leaving the cottage, she not only vouch- 
safed to resume her old office of opening the garden gate 
for him, but said, in a half cordial tone, as he was passing — 
" Good-night, Mr. Horace ! Keep a good heart, and all may 
end well yet." 

" Bless you ! thank you ! thank you ! dear, dear, sweet, 
lovely Nora!" was Vernon's rapturous exclamation, as 
dashing back the closing gate, so as almost to upset his old 
friend, he hugged her round the neck with such schoolboy 
vehemence of delight, as left her wellnigh breathless and 
half indignant, though not quite unaccustomed in former 
days to such ebullitions of his volatile spirits. 

Her rebuke (if she uttered one) was, however, quite lost 
on the offender. Before she had time to set her cap 
straight, or smooth down her ruffled neck-kerchief, he was 
already half way to the rectory, which he re-entered that 
night in a frame of mind so overflowing with happiness, 
security, self-reconcilement, and universal benevolence, as 
reflected its own hues on all surrounding objects, animate 
and inanimate. Dr. Hartop was agreeable — Lady Octavia 
enchanting — all but her charms and obligingness forgotten 
or forgiven — (what was any woman's heart to him but MiK 
licent's ?) — her harp and voice in exquisite tone> — his own 
vocal powers and his flute in the happiest unison with both; 
Dr. Hartop gradually sank to balmy slumbers ; music was 
discontinued in consideration for his repose ; conversation 
succeeded — " the feast of reason and the flow of soul"— of 
course restricted on the doctor's account, to the low key 



310 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXV. 

and subdued tones that sound so sweetly confidential : and 
when, on his awakening, bed-candles were lighted, and 
Lady Octavia, taking hers from Vernon, and gracefully 
paying her parting salutation to Dr. Hartop and himself, 
withdrew to her own apartment, she just turned her head 
on entering it to glance down the passage, at the end of 
which Vernon was still unconsciously holding open the 
drawing-room door, as he gazed after her receding form, 
and softly said to herself, with a quiet inward laugh, a 
curled lip, and an eye of infinite meaning, "Ah, ah! je te 
rattrappe, fine mouche! Sauve toi si tu pourras." 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 311 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

The rector's departure from Sea Vale was at length fixed 
for the second week of September ; but when the final ar- 
rangements were made, Lady Octavia found herself con- 
demned to accompany her uncle during his month's residence 
at Exeter, instead of immediately joining the gay autumn 
party at Falkland Court. A short time back, such a contre* 
terns would have severely tried her ladyship's philosophy, but 
within the last fortnight Vernon's premature return to his 
old colours had piqued her into a determination, coute qui 
coute, to bring him back to hers, if but for a week, before 
she gave him his final discharge ; and a scheme was now 
shaping itself in her creative imagination, which promised, 
not only to effect that purpose in the most satisfactory man- 
ner, but to wile away some of the horrors of her stay at 
Exeter — horrors infinitely greater, in her estimation, than 
those of rural retirement ; and she hailed as quite providen- 
tial certain waking visions, which substituted the handsome 
curate and his flute, moonlight music and moonlight walks 
with him, in old bay windows and echoing cloisters, for chi- 
meras dire of portly canons and their dignified spouses- 
solemn dinners — silent whist-tables, and all the dull cere- 
monial of an ecclesiastical court circle. 

During the last fortnight of Dr. Hartop's stay at the rec- 
tory, the family party had been augmented by the arrival of 
a brother of Lady Octavia's, the Reverend Arthur Falkland, 
who came down to Sea Vale for the united advantages of 
shooting and sea-bathing, and Millicent readily accepted 
Vernon's apology for steaHng from her a few of those hours 
that he would more willingly have devoted entirely to her, 
in order to show due attention and courtesy to his rector's 
guest and nephew. No day passed, however, without his 
visiting the cottage — few during which he did not look in 



312 CHCRCK YARDS. ^-^CHAP. XXVI. 

more than once or twice on its lonely mistress ; and if his 
visits were each time shorter, and his manner more unequal 
and pre-occupied, she assured herself that, circumstanced as 
he then was, nothing could be more natural or excusable. 
" And it will only be for a few days longer, Milly," said he. 
** Thank God ! only three days longer ; for this is Satur- 
day, and on Monday they depart— and then, dearest, dearest 
Miilicent ! we shall be once more all the World to each 
other." Tears came into Vernon's eyes as he uttered the 
last words ; and after a short pause, during which he had 
been gazing upon Milhcent with troubled yet tender earnest- 
ness, he vehemently added, " Would to God they were al* 
ready gone ! would to God I had never seen them, Milly !" 
—And his painful agitation distressed the affectionate heart 
of Miilicent, who endeavoured to soothe him with every ten- 
der and comforting assurance, best calculated to reconcile 
him to himself, and allay what she conceived to be the sud- 
den storm of compunctious retrospection. 

That evening, whether in the fond weakness of her heart, 
yearning to give comfort, or that she really began to enter- 
tain hopes of prolonged life, (still dear — how dear to her if 
to be passed with Vernon !) for the first time since her dan- 
ger had been made known to him, she spoke of the future—-^ 
of an earthly future ; looked at him almost believingly when 
he talked of their union ; and did not shake her head, nor 
smile as she had smiled of late, when he talked of it as an 
event that was now assuredly to take place before the close 
of that autumn already entered upon. Once or twice in- 
deed, she seemed to shrink, as if from hope ; but it was evi- 
dent, at least it seemed evident to Vernon, that she did not 
turn from it as formerly ; and as with him there was no 
medium between despair and joyful certainty, he hailed her 
doubtful encouragement as a pledge of perfect security, 
which would justify him for having acceded to a plan which 
he had hitherto hesitated from communicating to Miilicent, 
though he had entered the cottage that morning with the 
express purpose. Now, however, there was no reasonable 
cause to deter him from speaking. All was so safe — Miili- 
cent so well, and in such good spirits ! — ^so, without further 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 313 

deliberation, he said smilingly, but with somewhat of a hur- 
ried tone, and a forced gaiety of manner, — - 

" Milly ! do you know I must have one long braid of that 
smooth raven hair, (which is so becomingly arranged, now 
you have humoured me by leaving ojff that dowdy cap,) 
by way of talisman, to bind me to you during four — five 
days — ^it may be a whole week, of separation." 

Millicent started, and the hectic of a moment suffused 
her pale face ; but she only looked her surprise, and Ver- 
non went on to explain, rather confusedly, while he was 
profitably busied in unrolling her ball of sewing thread, 
that Dr. Hartop had given him such a pressing invitation 
to accompany him and Lady Octavia to Exeter, and be 
their guest during the musical festival which was to take 
place the week ensuing, that he felt it would have been 
not only ungracious, but ungrateful, to decline the courte- 
ous proposal ;— " and so, dearest Millicent," he continued, 
looking up from the handiwork on which his eyes had been 
fixed with intense interest during the first part of his com- 
munication, *' I have promised to go, — that is, with a men- 
tal reservation that you continue well enough for me to 
leave you without anxiety for those few days, and that 
you will not feel uncomfortable at my doing so." 

While Vernon was speaking, Millicent had time to re- 
cover from the painful emotion into which she had been 
surprised by his unexpected information ; and inwardly re- 
buking herself for its unreasonable selfishness, she said 
promptly and cheerfully, 

"You did quite right, dear Horace. I am so well that 
I can spare you safely, and shall enjoy with you, in imag- 
ination, the musical treat that will be to you such a real 
banquet. On Monday, you said — the day after to-morrow 
—and to stay till— *^?" 

" Only till the Saturday ensuing — I intend — I believe," 
replied Horace to her look of anxious enquiry. *^ At fur- 
thest, the Monday after ; and in that case Falkland, who 
stays on some weeks at Sea Vale, would take my duty." 

" But you will not stay away longer — not much longer ?" 
hesitatingly, vet almost imploringly, rejoined Millicent, in 
27 



314 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXVI* 

a lower and less cheerful tone, a sudden shade slightly 
clouding the serenity of her mild countenance. "I am 
very nervous still, and may not long continue so well as I 
am now ; and then, if any change should take place. Nay, 
do not look so disturbed, dear Horace — I am so well now ! 
— but do not stay away too long.^^ 

" I will not go— I will not go, Milly ! if it gives you 
one moment's pain, dear girl ! — -But how is this, Milly ? a 
minute agone, and you spoke so cheerfully and hopefully. 
And now — that quivering lip ! — those glistening eyes ! — 
Millicent ! my beloved ! what means such sudden change ?" 

" Forgive me, dear Horace ! I am ashamed of my way- 
wardness—of my caprice," she faltered out, concealing her 
face, now bathed in tears, against Vernon's shoulder — " But 
it is the infirmity of my enervating malady — the effect of 
weakness — of unstrung nerves ; and sometimes an unbid- 
den thought suddenly crosses and subdues me, and I cannot 
restrain these foolish tears. But they always do me good, 
Horace ; and after the shower comes sunshine, you know," 
and she looked up at him, as she spoke the last word, with 
still dewy eyes and a faintly brightening smile, that beauti- 
fully illustrated her simple metaphor. But the humid ray 
scarcely broke out into cloudless sunshine, though she re- 
covered perfect serenity, and would not listen for a moment 
to Vernon's reiterated, but rather fainter proposition, of 
wholly relinquishing his intended excursion. 

" Remember," said he, as they stood together in the cot- 
tage porch, just before he left her that evening — " Remem- 
ber, Milly, I am to take away with me one of those ebon 
locks. If it is not ready for me to-morrow, I shall cut it 
off myself. I wish I had your picture, Milly !" 

" I wish you had, dear Horace," she quickly answered ; 
" I have often wished it lately — I should like you to have 
it ; but there is my father's, that will be yours, Horace ; and 
it is so like me, you know, you will never look upon it with- 
out thinking of me." 

" Without thinking of you, Milly ] Shall I not have 
yourself, your own dear living self, as well as that precious 
picture we shall so often look upon together ?" 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 315 

** Bat, dearest Horace, if it should be otherwise, if that 
picture only should become yours, place it somewhere where 
you may see it often when you are alone and in your quiet 
hours of serious thought. But do not look so very serious 
now — ^I spoke but of an ' if,' a passing thought. To-mor- 
row I shall send you away cheerfully." 

" If you do not, Milly, here I remain, be sure. A word 
would keep me — only half a word. Speak it, beloved ! I 
almost wish you would." But she spoke not, and, bidding 
her an affectionate farewell for the night, he was turning to 
depart, but lingered yet a moment to point out to her a 
small white rose-bud, which promised yet to blossom in its 
sheltered corner. " Look, Milly," he said, " ' The last rose 
of summer.' Your favourite rose will yield you yet one 
blossom. Before it is full blown, I will be here to pluck 
and place it in your bosom." Words lightly spoken some- 
times sink deeply into loving hearts, especially under cir- 
cumstances such as Millicent's, where physical causes acted 
morbidly upon a mental system, by nature sensitive, and 
perhaps not wholly free from a taint of superstitious weak- 
ness. From that hour the rose became her calendar, and 
she watched its unfolding leaves, as if their perfect expan- 
sion was to be the crisis of her fate. 

By what means, or under what pretences. Lady Octavia 
had succeeded in obtaining for Vernon an invitation to ac- 
company Dr. Hartop and herself to Exeter, matters little to 
the reader of this story. The success of her ladyship's ma- 
noeuvres has been sufficiently illustrated by the preceding 
conversation. The day that intervened before that of his de- 
parture being Sunday, Vernon was detained from the cottage 
during a great portion of it by his clerical duties. Then his 
assistance was required at the rectory in packing up certain 
portfolios, albums, and various nicknackeries, not to be safe- 
ly entrusted even to the invaluable Jenkins, so that, although 
he contrived to look in two or three times upon Millicent, 
each visit was but for a few hurried minutes, the last brief- 
est of all. And well for her that it was so ; for though 
she had successfully struggled through the day to maintain 
a seniblance of cheerful composure, and had indeed partly 



316 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI, 

reasoned herself out of what she meekly accounted unrea- 
sonable disquietude, as evening drew on, the mental excite- 
ment subsided, her spirits seemed to ebb away with the de- 
parting daylight, and she felt as if they would hardly hold 
out " to speed the parting friend" with that cheerful fare- 
well with which she had promised to dismiss him. Vernon 
also had his reasons for brief leave-taking ; but his adieus, 
though fondly affectionate, were more than cheerful, hurried 
over with a voluble gaiety, and an exuberance of spirits that 
seemed hardly natural. " Till Saturday, dearest !" were 
his parting words ; and before Millicent's long-restrained 
feelings had broken out into one choking sob, before the 
brimming tears had forced their way over her aching eyelids, 
he was out of sight and out of hearing, though the garden 
gate still vibrated with the swing which had closed it be- 
hind him. And the lock of raven hair, which was to be 
his "talisman," which Millicent had not neglected to make 
ready as he had enjoined her, though with womanly coy- 
ness (womanly feeling rather) she had hesitated to give it 
unclaimed. He was gone, and had forgotten to claim it ! 

The middle of the third week, from the day of Vernon's 
farewell to Millicent, found him still at Exeter. Shall we 
tell how the time crept at Sea Vale in his absence ? or how 
it had flown with him in that world of novelty to which he 
found himself transported ? or shall we count over, link by 
link, " the chain of untoward circumstances" (so he wrote 
of them to Millicent) which had caused him to prolong his 
absence from her so long beyond the term he had pledged 
himself to at parting? Alas! it is but too easy to picture 
to one's self the feelings of the lonely invalid — the first 
sharp pang of disappointment — ^the sickness of hope de- 
ferred — ^the sinking of the spirit into utter hopelessness. 
And it would be tedious and distasteful to enumerate all 
the frivolous excuses alleged by Vernon for his continuance 
at Exeter, excuses which, for a time, however, were more 
indulgently admitted by the generous, unsuspicious Milli- 
cent, than satisfactory to his heart, and slumbering, though 
not seared, conscience. Yet he had partly succeeded in 
stilling, though not stunning the inward accuser. " MiUi- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 317 

cent's first letter had been cheerfully and cheeringly writ- 
ten. She was undoubtedly well — so well, that in a few 
days, more or less — " But it was easier to drive away re- 
flection altogether, than, by resorting to it, to acquire per- 
fect self-justification — so he fled from himself and his own 
thoughts to the syren, in whose charmed presence all but 
his own captivations were forgotten. 

Lady Octavia's attractions had not, however, achieved, 
unaided, the triumph over Vernon's best resolves — it might 
well be said over his best principles ; and still their power 
had extended over his imagination only, leaving his heart 
true to its first affection, if true that preference may be 
called which, when put to the test, will sacrifice no selfish 
gratification, no unworthy vanity to the peace and welfare 
of its ostensible object. Every thing combined with her 
ladyship's witchery to complete Vernon's mental intoxica- 
tion. A whirl of dissipation, consequent on the provincial 
gathering for the Musical Festival, of which Lady Octavia 
condescended to be the presiding deity, no other high-born 
or fashionable beauty being at hand to dispute her pre- 
eminence ; the marked favour with which he was publicly 
distinguished by this goddess — the admired of all eyes, the 
envy of many — and the general notice and consideration it 
obtained for him, and the still more dangerous influence of 
her seductive sweetness and varied powers of charming, in 
those frequent tete-d-tttes which she had anticipated with so 
much sagacious prescience " in antique bay windows and 
shadowy cloisters ;" the perpetual excitement of music, or 
dancing, of novelty, where all was new to him : — every 
thing conspired, together with Lady Octavia's arts and the 
weak points of Vernon's character, to complete that intoxi- 
cation which was at its height about the time (the third 
week of his stay at Exeter,) when, in pursuance of our 
task as a faithful chronicler, we must resume a more cir- 
cumstantial detail, though still as briefly as may be, of his 
further progress. 

In the miscellaneous assemblage drawn together by the 
music meeting. Lady Octavia's discriminating survey had 
found in the male part of it no individual so qualified to do 
27* 



318 CHURCHYARIXS. CHAP. XXVl* 

credit to her taste and patronage as the handsome, and m* 
teresting, and really elegant Vernon ; and so interesting 
did he become, in the daily increasing intimacy of familiar 
intercourse ; so rapidly developed under her ladyship's fos- 
tering encouragement, were his latent capabilities for " bet- 
ter things," as she was pleased to express herself; and to 
such advantage did he appear among all surrounding com^ 
petitors, that had the fair Octavia been of those with whom 

** Un peu d'amour, un peu de soin 
Mene souvent le coeur bien loin^" 

there is no saying how far beyond its original design " le 
roman d'unjour''^ might have extended. But her ladyship's 
heart, not composed in the first instance of very sensitive 
atoms, had been laid to harden so effectually in the petri- 
fying spring of fashionable education, as to have become 
proof to 

** Cupid's best arrow, with the golden head," 

if not shot from the vantage ground of a broad parchment 
field, cabalistically endorsed with the word " settlement ;" 
and having achieved her vowed triumph, by " fooling Ver- 
non to the top of his bent," she began to suspect the pas- 
time had been sufficiently prolonged, and that if the deliri- 
um she had worked up to a crisis were not timely checked, 
she might find herself publicly committed, in a way that 
would not only militate against her own serious views, but 
probably come to the knowledge of Dr. Hartop, and incur 
his severe displeasure. 

Lady Octavia was far too well-bred to give the cut di- 
rect to any body, and too " good-hearted" to inflict more 
than unavoidable mortification on a person, for whom, as 
she expressed herself to the confidential Jenkins, she should 
always retain a compassionate interest. But while she 
was meditating how to 

" Whistle him softly down the wind," 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 319 

Fate stepped in to her assistance in the shape of an old ac- 
quaintance, who very unexpectedly made his appearance 
at Exeter with a party of friends, with whom he was on a 
shooting excursion. 

Lord George Amersham was one of those persons, who, 
without being very young, very handsome, very clever, at 
all wealthy, or in any way " a marrying man," had, by 
some necromancy, so established his supremacy in all mat- 
ters of taste and ton, that his notice was distinction, and 
his favour fame. No wonder that suffrage so important 
was hriguee by all female aspirants for fashionable ascend- 
ency ; and Lady Octavia had been so fortunate as to ob- 
tain it on her first coming out. The appearance of such a 
star in the provincial hemisphere, to which she was con- 
demned fro tempore^ would at all times have been hailed by 
the lovely exile as an especial mercy, but " under existing 
circumstances," (to use the diplomatic phrase,) she esteemed 
it quite providential, as nothing now could be so easy and 
so natural as the transfer of her attention from Vernon to 
her old acquaintance. 

The former was soon made sensible of the change, though 
at first more surprised and perplexed at it, than aware of 
the systematic alteratioi) of Lady Octavia's deportment. 
But his obtuse perceptions were soon to be sufficiently en- 
lightened. A subscription ball, which was to take place 
on the second night of Lord George's stay at Exeter, was 
also to be honoured by the presence and patronage of Lady 
Octavia Falkland and her party, including the noble sports- 
man and his friends — Vernon as a matter of course — Dr. 
Hartop as a matter of necessity — and, as one of conveni- 
ence, a deaf and purblind old lady, the relict of a deceased 
canon, who made herself useful in a twofold capacity — os- 
tensibly as Lady Octavia's chaperon, and veritably as an 
unwearied sitter-out of (she could not be called a listener 
to) Dr. Hartop's long stories, and an established member of 
his select whist set. This party had dined at the rectory, 
•and Lord George's rank having of course entitled him to 
conduct Lady Octavia to the eating-room, and take his seat 
beside her, it was equally a matter of course, (the other 



320 CHURCHYAKDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

guests being also men of pretensions, if not of rank,) that 
the bottom of the table and the deaf old lady, who had been 
duly marshalled out by the doctor, should fall to the lot of 
Vernon, whose proximity to the door, however, secured him 
the office of holding it open for the ladies when they should 
pass to the drawing-room. But just at that moment, Lady 
Octavia, actuated perhaps by some compunctious conscious- 
ness that her attentions had been too entirely engrossed du- 
ring dinner by her neighbours at the upper end of the table, 
was seized by a fit of such extraordinary cordiality towards 
the canon's deaf relict, that she passed her fair arm with 
affectionate familiarity within that of the worthy old lady, 
and began whispering something in the lappets of her cap, 
which lasted till they reached the stair-foot, and the dining- 
room door had closed behind them. Lord George and two 
of the other gentlemen accompanied Dr. Hartop and the 
ladies to the ball-room, in the Doctor and Mrs. Buzby's car- 
riages. The third walked thither with Vernon, and when 
they entered the Assembly-room, Lady Octavia was already 
dancing with one of Lord George's friends. When her part- 
ner, after the set was over, had conducted her to a seat, 
Vernon drew near, with the hope (expectation it would have 
been a few nights previous) of engaging her for the next 
quadrille. But she was still engrossed by her partner, and 
the others of Lord George's party, he having comfortably 
established himself on the best half of the sofa, of which she 
occupied a corner, entrenched behind two of the gentlemen 
who were conversing with her, so that Vernon could only 
proffer his request, by speaking it across Lord George, so 
audibly as to make him colour at the sound of his own 
voice, with a painful consciousness of awkward embarrass- 
ment, which was not diminished by perceiving that his words 
were wasted " on the desert air," at least that they had 
only drawn on him a grave stare from Lord George, and 
the eyes of many surrounding loungers, though the Lady 
Octavia's were perversely fixed in an opposite direction, and 
she appeared perfectly unconscious not only of his address, 
but of his vicinity. Just then a space was cleared for walt- 
zing — the magic sounds set twenty pairs of te-totums in ro- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 321 

tatory motion, and Lord George, who " never danced," lan- 
guidly, and, with apparent efTort, roused himself from his 
recumbent posture, and, to the no small amazement of Ver- 
non's unsophisticated mind, without addressing a word to 
Lady Octavia, or further ascertaining her consent, than by 
passing one arm round her slender waist as she arose from 
the sofa, whirled her off, seemingly " nothing loath" into 
the giddy circle. Vernon was suddenly sensible of a vehe- 
ment longing to breathe the fresh air, and contemplate the 
beautiful moonshine. We cannot exactly pronounce how 
long he indulged in solitary meditation : but when he re-en- 
tered the ball-room, the waltz was over — an after set of 
quadrilles just finished, and the dancers were crowding 
about the refreshment tables. 

Vernon mechanically mingled with the throng, and in a 
few minutes found himself very undesignedly posted behind 
Lady Octavia and Lord George, who was supplying her 
with ice and sherbet, and finishing some speech of " infinite 
humour," at which her ladyship was laughing as heartily 
as it was admissible that lips polite should laugh. " Now 
really, my lord ! you are too severe," murmured those lovely 
lips between the spoonfuls of ice. " You are too hard upon 
my pastor fido — an excellent obliging creature, I assure you 
— really quite civilized, and has been infinitely useful to me 
in that horrid desert. No such ' Cymon' either, as you call 
him ; and as for Iphigenia— -the fair Octavia will not confess 
having charitably enacted that character — her delight is to 
do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." * 

" But seriously though — this pastoral pet of yours — this 

Mr. by the by, what a vastly appropriate name ! — this 

Mister Verdant — " 

" How can you be so excessively absurd !" uttered the 
lady, convulsed with inward laughter at his lordship's wit 
— " you know his name's Vernon ; I call him ' Le Beau 
Lindor.'" 

" Le Beau Lindor" had heard quite enough. Backing 
with such inconsiderate suddenness, as almost to upset 
good Mrs. Buzby and a dignitary of the church, in his 
brusque retreat — he left the ball-room^ — cleared the stairs 



322 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

at a bound — and by a progress almost as rapid, gained Dr. 
Hartop's residence, and the sanctuary of his own chamber. 
What were his meditations after he had shut himself within 
it, securing himself by turning the key from possible intru- 
sion, we cannot nicely determine, but may fairly infer they 
were not of a very philosophic nature, from certain sounds 
of heavy and irregular footsteps — portentous thumps and 
bangs, indicating the violent derangement of furniture, the 
opening and shutting of draws, with no gentle and delibe- 
rate hand, and the dragging backwards and forwards of a 
portmanteau ; which disturbance was so audible in the hall 
below, as to excite the wonder and curiosity of the " liv- 
eried loungers," one of whom at last tapped at the visiter's 
door, with a civil request, to know if Mr. Vernon wanted 
any thing, or had rung his bell. " Nothing," was the short 
and comprehensive reply, in a tone which interdicted fur- 
ther intrusion ; but all became quiet within the chamber, 
and by the time the footman had rejoined his fellows of 
the buttery, its solitary occupant was seated in perfect 
stillness — a packed portmanteau on the floor beside him — 
his elbows propped on the table before which he sat, and 
his face concealed by his two hands, upon the outspread 
palms of which rested his hot and throbbing temples. " Mil- 
licent ! Millicent !" were the first sounds that after a spell 
of profound silence struggled through his scarcely unclosed 
lips, and half-shut teeth. But it seemed as if his own ut.. 
terance of that gentle name stung him to agony ; for, 
starting back from the table, he flung out his arm across it 
with so much violence as to dash off* two or three books that 
had been piled together and now came to the floor with a 
noisy fall, which apparently aggravated Vernon's irritable 
mood, for he spurned the volumes v/ith a kick that sent 
them sprawling in all directions, but left on the spot where 
they had fallen a letter which, in the general dispersion, 
escaped from its hiding-place within one of their covers. 
That letter caught Vernon's eye, and in a moment he was 
fixed, still, motionless, almost unbreathing as a statue, ga« 
zing on that small white square of folded paper, as if a ser- 
pent lay coiled before him. And there was cause — full 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEAliT. 8*23 

cause and weighty — ^for that shrinking, yet fascinated gaze. 
That letter was from Sea Vale — from Millicent. Five days 
before it had been placed in Vernon's hand, and the seal 
was yet unbroken ! It had been brought to his chamber 
door, just as he had caught up his hat and gloves, to at- 
tend Lady Octavia, who was waiting for him in the hall, 
on a pic-nic excursion to some picturesque spot in the 
vicinity of Exeter. He held the letter for half a minute 
— his hand was on the seal, and yet he felt at that 
moment that he would rather defer the perusal of its 
contents. An impatient summons came from a silvery 
voice below — Vernon started — gave one look to the di- 
rection — -one kiss to the well-known characters, and slipt 
the unopened letter within the covers of a book that 
lay on the table, to be flown to, to be read in undisturbed 
quietness, the moment of his retnrn. Five days ago 
that letter had been so deposited. There it had remained 
till the present moment, untouched, unread, unremembered ! 
And Vernon — how had he passed that interval ? What 
were his feeUngs, when suddenly before him lay the mute 
accuser ? " Madman that I have been !" he groaned aloud, 
and sinking into a chair, his tears fell fast on the unnerved 
fingers, that could with difficulty break opon the seal, which 
had been too long inviolate. Milhcent's letter, which en- 
closed another, ran thus : 
" My dear Horace, 
"You desired me to open any letters which might arrive 
for you while you were absent. I have done so by the en- 
closed, which I forward to you immediately ; for, as you will 
see, it is one that concerns you nearly — 'that calls you to take 
possession of the long-promised living. I thank God, my 
dear Horace, that I have lived to congratulate you on this 
event ; and I pray God to make it blessed to you ; and to bless 
you in your faithful service here, and in the reward of it here- 
after. But this is not my only reason for pressing your return 
— your immediate return to Sea Vale, even — -(was I ever be- 
fore so selfishly exacting, Horace?) — even should inclina- 
tion, or any cause short of necessity detain you at Exeter. 
You will soon again be at liberty to return thither, or to 



824 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXVf. 

seek the society of your other friends, wherever they may 
be. There will be time enough for them — 'for all — but 
not for me, dear Horace. Therefore, for your own sake 
more than mine, come, — ^come soon, come very soon, or 
(for I know the kindliness of your nature) you will after- 
wards reproach yourself with a bitterness, the sting of 
which I shall not be permitted to extract, nor to soothe 
the only pain I shall ever have caused you, Horace. 
I am not so well — ^not nearly so well as when you left 
me : I cannot leave my bed now, or sit up in it for more 
than half an hour at a time ; and even the writing these 
few lines exhausts me, so you see you must come soon — 
very, very soon, if — but I need not urge it — I know you 
will be with me directly — almost, and that I shall have time 
and strength left to thank and bless you, and comfort you^ 
dear Horace, and that we shall yet talk together— pray to- 
gether-— Oh, yes ! and that I shall receive from your hands 
the pledge of our immortal hope — of our certain reunion. 

M. A." 
An abler, a far abler narrator than I am, might well 
shrink from attempting to describe Vernon's feelings as he 
read this letter, or their first frantic ebullition after he had 
perused it. For some moments all within him was anarchy 
and distraction. Agonies of remorse and terror, and 
images of death crowded upon each other in hurrying con- 
fusion, like the phantasmagoria of a frightful dream — and 
his ears rang with an imaginary cry, " Too late ! too late!" 
that withered and benumbed his powers of action, while a 
contrary impulse impelled them -to promptest exertion. 
The latter soon obtained the mastery, however, and another 
glance at the date of the letter— that date now six days old ! 
— acted electrically on the mental chaos. In a moment its 
jarring elements were reduced to comparative order, con- 
centrated in one overruling purpose. It was but an hour 
past midnight. Four hours' rapid posting would take him 
to Sea Vale. In less than half an hour he was whirling on 
his road thither, as fast as fresh horses could tear over the 
ground, urged on by the relentless lash of a well-bribed 
driver ; and in spite of various detentions at the several 



Mi^ 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 325 

stages, while tired post-boys were roused from their heavy 
slumbers, and galled cattle dragged from their short rest — 
(Oh ! how interminable seemed every moment's delay !) — 
in spite of these and other trifling hindrances, he reached 
the hil]-top that overlooked Sea Vale, before the stars began 
to " pale their ineffectual fires," in the uncertain dawn of a 
dull, cheerless, October morning. The village below was 
distinguishable only as a black shapeless mass, lying in the 
deep shadows of the surrounding hills. Only one twinkling 
light gleamed at its entrance, from the lamp-post of the 
single inn ; yet Vernon strained his eyes through the dark- 
ness, on — on — ^towards the more distant dwellings, till he 
fancied he could descry the well known gable — the tall 
round chimney — the two shadowing elms — among the con- 
fused and indefinite outline of trees and buildings. 

It was but imagination — the rapid portraiture of memory ; 
but his heart beat quicker at the fancied sight, and leaping 
from the carriage, he left it to pursue its more leisurely 
way towards the inn yard, and rushing down the remainder 
of the declivity, sprang over a stile into a meadow path, 
which would take him by a short cut through a field or two, 
into the green lane, the back way to the cottage. That 
way was so familiar to him, that, to his eye, every object 
was as recognizable by that dim light — that " darkness 
visible," as it would have been, at noon-day; and what 
emotions — what recollections pressed upon him, as he leaped 
the last gate into the bowery lane — as he trod once more 
its soft greensward, now thickly strewn with a rustling car- 
pet of autumnal leaves — as he passed the grey spectral- 
looking stems of the two old thorns at the corner of the 
garden hedge. And as he pursued his way along that me- 
morable path, every and each one of those inanimate un- 
certain shapes stood out with ghastly 'distinctness to his 
mind's eye, and he gazed on them with such intensity of 
vision, as if he could have read in the aspect of those sense- 
less things, some intimation of the nature of that dread cer- 
tainty which, nevertheless, as the decisive moment drew 
near, he shrank from ascertaining. As the cottage really 
became visible, and a patch of its white walls now and then 
28 



326 CHURCHYAKDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

discernible through the leafless fence, a cold shuddering ran 
through his whole frame, and he stopped abruptly, as if an 
unseen hand had checked his progress. All was darkness 
on that side ttie cottage. No light from within streamed 
through either of the small lattices — but only Nora's sleep- 
ing-room lay that way. Millicent's — the sick-chamber, 
opened to the front. Was it still only the chamber of sick- 
ness ? Alas ! that miserable hope ! But it was the more 
dreadful doubt that still delayed Vernon's onward steps — 
that seemed to stagnate the very current of his blood, so 
deadly was the weight and sickness that hung about his 
heart. A minute more — he had only to turn the corner of 
that small dwelling, to cast up one look at the well known 
window, and suspense would terminate ; for surely, he said 
within himself, a light would beam from that chamber if 
life were there — "if life!" — and then the unhappy man 
shudderingly repeated — " Six days ! and she was dying." 
But the agony of that remembrance nerved him to desperate 
resolve, and rushing forward, in another moment he stood 
facing the chamber window. There was light within ! — 
" then life !" — was the rapid overpowering conclusion, and 
suddenly all strength forsook him — the young and vigorous 
frame felt feeble as infancy, and tears — quiet tears, rolled 
fast down his agitated face, as leaning for support against 
one of the old elm-trees, he continued to gaze earnestly, 
with feelings of unutterable gratitude, on that pale star of 
comfort. The light was very pale and feeble, (true em- 
blem, alas ! of his most sanguine hope,) for that of the grey 
dawn began to contend with the waning watch-light, and 
to give distinctness to the near external objects. A muslin 
blind was drawn within the lattice, but through its thin 
texture Vernon could discern the white curtains of the bed, 
and at the other end of the chamber a high bracket, on 
which stood the night-lamp, before a large china vase which 
Millicent had always been wont to keep replenished with 
flowers or evergreens. 

To what trifles (as drowning creatures cling to straws) 
will the miserable, the almost hopeless, cling for consola- 
tion ! Vernon's heart beat more equally — his breath came 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 327 

freer at sight of that insignificant object, for the vase was 
filled with verdure. Were the boughs fresh or withered ? 
He drove away the officious suggestion, for his soul yearned 
for the faintest shadow of comfort. If not her hand, Nora's 
had filled the vase. The dear one herself, therefore, must 
still be susceptible of pleasure from objects which would 
cease to interest the dying. Was it yet possible ? But 
though Hope's passing whisper was eagerly caught at, Ver- 
non dared not dwell upon its soothing sweetness. He dared 
not anticipate — he dared not think ; and now he would 
have given worlds to exchange that terrible stillness which 
yet pervaded all things — that bodily inaction to which he 
was condemned — for the universal stir of human life, and 
some occasion that should call upon him for violent corpo- 
real exertion. Any thing, every thing, would have been 
welcome, which might have afforded scope for the nervous 
restlessness that now agitated his whole frame, to expend 
itself, or have gained the slightest relief — the most transient 
diversion of thought — for the mental fever, which increased 
with every lingering moment of suspense. But as yet, ex- 
cept the expiring gleam of that pale watchlight, no sign or 
sound of life was seen or heard within the cottage ; and 
without, so profound and death-like was the hush of nature, 
that Vernon could have fancied its mighty pulses had stood 
still, or beat only in his own throbbing arteries. 

The gloomy daybreak advanced so tardily, that none 
but quite near objects were yet visible through the sea of 
white unwholesome vapour that now seemed melting into 
drizzling rain — now condensing itself into a solid wall 
around the cottage, and a few yards of its small territory. 
The dank moisture clung like transparent glue to the bare 
leafless branches of the deciduous trees ; and, collecting in- 
to large globules at the extremities of the heavy drooping 
heads of the dark evergreens, and along the cottage eaves, 
dropped to the ground with sullen plashes, dismally break- 
ing, at intervals, the otherwise universal silence. 

Vernon still watched the casement of that little chamber, 
within whose walls his all of earthly interest — his hopes, his 
fears, his very being, hung suspended upon a dreaded un. 



328 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX Vf. 

certainty — a flitting life — a fluttering breath — ^perhaps at 
that very moment passing away for ever ! 

All hitherto had remained quiet in the chamber. Sud- 
denly a figure passed slowly across, between the curtained 
window and the bed's foot — a tall, dark figure, that could be 
only Nora's. It was stationary for a moment before the 
lamp, which, as day advanced, had condensed its pale rays 
into a small red globe of flame, and that dying spark was 
gone, when the tall form moved away from the spot where 
it had been, and advanced towards the window, which was 
partially unclosed, and a wrinkled hand and arm put forth 
from beneath the still drawn blind, to secure the lattice* 

" And the morning air, so cold and damp, to breathe on 
that dear sufferer ! — Could Nora be so incautious ?" And 
Vernon advanced his hand unconsciously, as if to close the 
casement ; but he was unnoticed from thence, and the fe- 
male form receded, 

" Now, then," thought Vernon, " now in a minute, I shall 
know my fate," — and passing stealthily through the little 
gate, (for he did not wish his footsteps to be heard in the 
sick chamber,) he advanced close to the house, of which the 
front door was still fast, and the lower shutters unopened. 
Awhile he stood beneath the porch, listening for the ap- 
proach of some one from within, to whom he might make 
cautious application for admittance ; but, soon impatient of 
fruitless waiting, he moved away to steal round the corner 
of the cottage, and seek admittance at the back entrance. 
As he stepped guardedly from the porch, his eyes glanced 
on a large white rose-tree that grew beside it, and, struck 
with sudden recollection, he stopped to look sorrowfully on 
the well-known shrub. There were yet a few yellow leaves 
upon the straggling branches, and many ripening berries, 
indicating the past profuseness of its summer bloom. But 
from the stem on which Vernon's eyes were riveted with 
painful interest, the flower-sprig he looked for had been re- 
cently cut off. " The last rose of summer" had not been 
left to wither on its stalk, though the hand was far away 
that should have stuck the late blossom in Millicent's bo- 
som. Just as Vernon turned the corner of the building, he 



Grave of the broken heart. 329 

heard the withdrawing of a bolt from the kitchen door, and 
as it slowly opened, he was moving forward with nervous 
precipitation, when the sight of a stranger startled him for 
a moment from his purpose, and before he had time to re- 
cover himself and accost her, the young girl, carrying a 
milking stool and pail, was already half way down the gar- 
den walk in her way to the field and cow-shed. A word — 
the slightest sound would have reached and recalled her, 
but Vernon shuddered and was silent. Again — as the de- 
cisive moment drew near, he shrunk from certainty — espe- 
cially from a stranger's lips. He would seek Nora — he 
would learn his fate from her. So suffering the young girl 
to pass on out of sight, he gently pushed open the door 
which she had left ajar, and stole noiselessly into the kitch- 
en. Its comfortless, disordered state sadly contrasted the 
beautiful neatness and arrangement, which had been wont 
in happier days to distinguish poor Nora's peculiar territory. 
The hearth was heaped with ashes of long accumulation, 
and the embers of a fire that had evidently burned all night, 
still emitted a feeble warmth, and dull red light from the 
lower bars of the grate, to which they had sunk far beneath 
the trivet and large black kettle, from which issued no cheer^ 
ful morning sound of bubbling water. Unwashed tea-things, 
with fragments of bread, butter, and cheese, and an end of 
tallow candle turned down into the pool of grease which had 
accumulated in the deep tin candlestick, were huddled toge- 
ther on the slopped and soiled little round table, that it had 
been Nora's pride to keep bright and polished as a looking- 
glass. Scattered plates and cups, a waiter with cut and 
squeezed lemon, and other evidences of late attendance on 
a sick room, were all noted by Vernon with deepest inter- 
est, and if the survey relieved him of his worst fears, he 
sighed heavily at thoughts of the best he had to anticipate. 
A glass half filled with lemonade stood on a salver on the 
dresser ; he raised, and put it to his lips, (for perhaps hers 
had recently touched its brim,) and as he did so, called to 
mind her affecting desire to receive from his hand another 
cup, which now he might be so soon called on to present to 
her, " If it must be — strengthen me for the task, oh God'^" 
28* 



330 CHURCHYAKDS.— CHAP. XXVI. 

was the inward ejaculation of a heart that could yet scarcely 
bring itself to add, " Thy will be done." 

Still Nora [^appeared not ; and reasonably concluding, 
that leaving the young charwoman to attend to household 
concerns, she had kept her station in the sick-chamber, he 
stole from the kitchen along the matted passage towards 
the staircase — but the door of the little parlour being open, 
he mechanically stopped at it. The shutters had been re- 
moved since he looked at the windows from without, and 
now the formal arrangement of the furniture — the cold, 
dreary, uninhabited look of the once cheerful little sitting- 
room, struck him forcibly, with a more painful sense of 
change, than even the unwonted disorder of poor Nora's 
kitchen. As he stood on the threshold in mournful con- 
templation, a shrill sound (one of discordant loudness to his 
morbidly sensitive ear) broke the deep silence. It was the 
awaking note of Millicent's canary bird, whose cage hung 
near the window ; and as the creature began to plume itself 
on the perch, and pour out a more sustained matin in its 
innocent joy, Vernon looked reproachfully at the uncon- 
scious favourite. But his attention was soon directed to 
other objects (all to him how eloquent !) and at last it 
rested on a vacant spot on the wall opposite. He started 
at perceiving that Colonel Aboyne's picture, which used to 
hang there, had been removed, but only as it seemed to a 
table in the middle of the room, on which lay a framed pic- 
ture, together with a white paper parcel, which was placed 
upon its glazed surface. Vernon felt as if the whole cur- 
rent of his blood rushed suddenly to the heart and brain. A 
moment he stood gazing as if spell-bound — then, with one 
desperate impulse, sprang forward, caught up the parcel — 
ascertained that the portrait beneath was indeed his friend's 
— his promised legacy ! and tore open the paper, which was 
superscribed in faint and uneven characters, " For my dear 
Horace." Franticly he tore it open — but one glance at its 
contents, and his fingers relaxed their hold — his sight be- 
came dizzy, and he reeled back for support against the wall. 
What baleful aspect had paralysed him thus ? That only 
of a withered rose, and a long lock of glossy raven hair. 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 331 

In some minds (happily constituted are those !) how 
indigenous — how indestructible — how elastic is hope ! Af- 
ter awhile it faintly revived in Vernon's bosom, from the 
seeming annihilation that succeeded that sudden shock. 
But feeble, indeed, was the reviving struggle — an expiring 
effort ! a last stand against despair. Almost the worst was 
known. But still a possibility remained, the thought of 
which perhaps helped to nerve Vernon's resolve to know all 
immediately. Without further pause or deliberation, but 
still with noiseless footsteps, he ran up the short flight of 
stairs that led to Millicent's sleeping room — and with cau- 
tious tread, and held-in breath, stole to the half-open door. 
All within was profound stillness — and he stopped on the 
threshold to listen, and to send forward one fearful glance. 
The white curtains of the bed were close drawn on the side 
towards him, as he stood still half behind the door ; but he 
fancied — surely it was not fancy — that there was a stir of 
life — of breath — a gentle and scarce perceptible rustling — as 
if some one moved. His heart beat quicker, as he ad- 
vanced a step onward, and then beheld Nora seated in a 
high-backed chair at the further corner of the bed's foot, to- 
wards which her face was turned, and her eyes fixed in the 
direction of the pillows, with that solemn and profound inte- 
rest with which we watch the slumbers of those who are 
"sick even unto death." But, apparently, she had only 
desisted for a moment from an employment, the nature of 
which Vernon's first glance eagerly detected. Her fingers 
still held the strings of one of Millicent's plain mourning 
caps — he hnew it well — the broad hems of which she had 
been running and crimping with accurate neatness, and a- 
cross her knees and with the arm of the chair lay a long 
white dressing-gown. Was there not evidence of life in 
those provident preparations ? He began to fear — Oh, 
blessed fear ! — that he might disturb the dear one's slum- 
bers, should his unexpected appearance too suddenly startle 
her faithful nurse, whose strongly marked countenance told 
a fearful tale to Vernon of all she had lately undergone. 
But just as he was shrinking back from the chamber, her 
eyes slowly returning from this mournful contemplation to 



332 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

her suspended task, caught sight of his receding figure— and 
strangely was she affected by the apparition. No word— no 
exclamation or sound escaped her lips ; — nor did she move 
from her chair — nor otherwise testify her consciousness of 
his unexpected presence, than by drawing up her tall gaunt 
figure as she sat, erect and rigid, to its utmost dimensions, 
and fixing on him her large dilating eyes with a ghastly un- 
definableness of expression which chilled his very heart's 
blood, though he had no power to withdraw his own from 
the unnatural fascination ; and when, after a few seconds of 
that wordless communion, she arose slowly, and standing 
still and upright on the same spot, without one feature re- 
laxing from its stony fixedness, beckoned him forward with 
one hand, while with the forefinger of the other she pointed 
to the bed's head, he obeyed mechanically — almost uncon- 
sciously — till he felt the grasp of that cold bony hand ; and, 
following with his eyes the direction of her pointing finger, 
beheld all that was still mortal of Millicent Aboyne. — The 
immortal spirit had ascended to Him, " with whom is no 
variableness, neither shadow of turning." 



THE END. 



WILEY AND PUTNAM'S 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



ztsns. soiJTiHisir's wonics. 
I. 

CHAPTERS ON CHURCHYARDS. 

II. 

SOLITARY HOURS: 

THE BIRTHDAY CHILDHOOD THE WIDOw's TALE. 

III. 

ELLEN FITZ-ARTHUR ; TALES OF THE FACTORY, 

&c. &c, 

" All who read thy writings must be thy friends ; and all lovers of nature must 
feel, as they peruse them, that few have painted its beauties with a more delicate 
hand of truth."— [Blackwood's Magazine,] 

" We do not remember any recent author whose poetry is so unmixedly native ; 
and this English complexion constitutes one of its characteristic charms. No 
purer models of our genuine home feeling and language could be placed in a 
young foreigner's hands than Mrs. Southey's Works. Moreover, her versifica- 
tion, especially in her two later volumes, is not only generally correct, but, in se- 
veral instances, of very great beauty and perfection. In her latest poem, "The 
Birthday,' she has attained to a still higher excellence of style." — [Quarterly Re- 
view, October I840."| 



TViley <^ Putnam's New Publications. 
THE ZINCALI; 

OR, 

AN ACCOUNT OF THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN. 

WITH AN ORIGINAL COLLECTION OF THEIR SONGS AND POETRY. 

BY GEORGE BORROW, 

Late Agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society in Spain. 

In 3 vols. 12mo. 

•* A strange book this, on a strange subject, written by a strange man — the only 
living man competent to write such a book. — The volumes contain fine materials 
for romance, and some even for history ; information collected from the ends of 
the earth, and exhibited without pretension or parade. 

" Not less isolated than the Jews— not less scattered over the face of the Globe, — 
without knowledge, without reputation, without opulence, the Gypsies have main- 
tained themselves for centuries, not alone in the wild wastes or gloomy solitudes of 
the Earth, but in the very heart of civilization and of society. They seem so to 
have accommodated themselves to the necessities of their position, so to have 
avoided becoming obnoxious to opinion, that legislation has long passed by them 
unconcerned. Taking no part in the drama of history, exercising no influence upon 
political events, the annalist has not honoured them with a share of his regard — 
the philologist has appeared little aware that their supposed jargon presents mat- 
ter for much reflection as to their origin, their migrations, and the strange vicissi- 
tudes through which they have passed ; nor has the literary student ever inquired 
what fragments of popular and traditional poetry were preserved in the minds and 
memories of the Gypsies. Mr. Borrow will have rendered no small service, if the 
poetry, the proverbs, the anecdotes, the traits of character, the stories, the tradi- 
tions, which he has collected together, should lead to new and wider inquiries on 
any of these matters.'' — [Westminster Review.] 



HINTS TO MOTHERS, 

FOR THE MANAGEMENT OF THEIR HEALTH. 

BY THOMAS BULL, M. D., 

From the Third London Edition. With Additions. 

In 1 vol. l2mo. 

" This httle volume is the benevolent contribution of good sense and profession- 
al skill, to the well-being of those who have the strongest claims on our sympa- 
thy. Unfortunately a vast mass of erroneous notions exists in the class to whom 
it is addressed ; to which, and to the concealment prompted by delicacy, until the 
time for medical aid is gone by, we are indebted for very much of the danger and 
suffering incident to the periods they are destined to pass through. Dr. Bull, in 
the true spirit of a physician and a gentleman, has by his perspicuous statements 
removed the first, and by his judicious and simple directions, anticipated the last of 
those fruitful sources of evil. There is no mother that will not be heartily thank- 
ful that this book ever fell into her hands: and no husband who should not present 
it to his wife. We cannot urge its value too strongly on all whom it concerns." — 
[Eclectic Review.] 

" We never read any popular treatise, or directions rather, that bear more 
strongly'the stamp of scientilic and experimental knowledge. The mere reading 
of our Author's book will do more good in the way of encouraging the fearful, 
and banishing nervous anxiety, than a whole concljive of the wisest and most san- 
guine matrons that society can anywhere bring together." — [Monthly Review.] 



Wiley 4* Putnam's New Publications * 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS: 

HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC. 
TRANSLATED, WITH NOTES, BY J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. 

A New Edition, revised. With an Introductory Essay on the Origin, 
Antiquity, Character, and Influence of the Ancient Ballads of Spain; 
and an Analytical Account, with Specimens, of the 

ROMANCE OF THE CID. 
CONTENTS : 



The Lamentation of Don Roderick. 

The Penitence of Don Roderick. 

The March of Bernardo del Carpio. 

The Complaint of the Count Saldana. 

The Funeral of the Count Saldana. 

The E-cape of Count Fernan Gonzales. 

The Vengeance of Miidara. 

The Wedding of the Lady Theresa. 

The Excommunication oftheCid. 

The Murder of !he Master. 

The Death of Queen Blanche. 

The Death of Don Pedro. 

The Avenging Chiide. 

The Proclamation of King Henry. 

The Death of Alonzo of Aguilar. 

The Departure of King Sebastian. 

The Bull Fight of Gazul. 

The Zegri's Bride. 

The Lamentation for Celin. 

The Moor Calaynos. 

The Escape of Gayferes. 

The Lady Alda's Dream. 

The Admiral Gusrinos. 

The Lady of the Tree. 

Song for the morninir of the dayofSt. 

John the liaiJtiSL. 
The SoTig of the Galley. 
The Wandering Knight's Song. 



The Captive Knight and the Blackbird* 
Bernardo and Alphonso. 
The Maiden Tribute, 
The Seven Heads. 
The Young Cid. 
Ximena demands Vengeance. 
The Cid and the five Moorish Kings. 
The Cid's Courtship. 
The Cid's Wedding. 
The Cid and the Leper. 
Bavicca. 

Garci Perez de Varga. 
The Pounder. 
The Lord of Butrago, 
The King of Arragon. 
The Vow of Reduan. 
The Flight from Granada. 
The Bridal of Andalla. 
Zara's Ear Rings. 
Melisendra. 
Count Arnaldos. 
Juliana. 
Serenade. 
Valladolid. 
Dragnt, the Corsair. 
Ch lit Alarco- and iho Infant Soliza. 
Ihe Rointince of the Cid, in twelve 
parts. 



" Mr. Lockhart has conjured upaboundless succession of scenes and actors, who 
pass before our view in a Banquo ffiass : — Bernardo, the hero of Roncevailes, the 
joersonified principle of the immemorial inveterate resistance of Spaniards against 
the invading Gaul— when Christian and Moor forgot their own mutual hatred and 

death-stri'i.'gie, in the more absorbing common abhoirence of France. The Cid 

" my Cid, he who was born in a good hour ! ' the honor of Spain' — the type and 
epitome of her national character, whose horse, sword, beard, every part, parcel 
and particular, has been made the theme of a poem. Poor Blanche ! in her lone- 
ly prison, sighing like Mary Stuart for her lost, her much loved France, and mur- 
dered by her wayward husband, Don Pedro— i hen comes his hour of retribution 
the fratriridal wrestling at Montiel ; the bloody civil wars, the Roses and Bos- 
Worths of Spain — anon the scene shifts to Granada, to the fairy Ajhambra, to the 
banquet or bet uty, — the fountain, jereed, and tournament. Then dark-coming 
caJamitiescast their shadows over joy and pomp; aery of woe from Alhama a 
hurrying and stirring in the city, a saddling of steeds, a buckling on of armour, a 
riding up and down ;— the contest, the defeat, the triumph of the cross, the fall'of 
the descent, never to rise again. Then is heard the 'last sigh of the Moor,' as 
descendin!^ fri m the hillock ofPadul. his water-standing eyes looked their 'last 
farewell at those red touers, his paradise on earth, now lost for ever. Tlien mur- 
mur out the plaintive ditiies offallen Granada, tho.-e Morieco wails which were for- 
bidden to be sung, lest the tear that they called up should be brushed away by the 
clenched hand, which passed rapidly over the brow to grasp the sword of revenge." 



Wiley 4* Putnam^s New PuUications* 



LIBRARY FOR THE YOUNG. 



TALES OF THE KINGS OF ENGLAND. 

Stories of Camps and Battlefields, Wars and Victories ; from the Old 
Historians. By Stephen Percy. With numerous Engravings on 
Wood, by Butler. 75c. 



STORIES ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE INSTINCT 

OF ANIMALS; 
Their Character and Habits. By Thomas Bingley. Embellished 
with Engravings from Drawings, by Landseer. 75c. 



TALES ABOUT TRAVELLERS: 

Their Perils, Adventures, and Discoveries. By Thomas Bingley. 
Embellished with Engravings. 75 c. 



WILLIAM TELL, THE HERO OF 

SWITZERLAND; 

From the French of M. Florian. With a Memoir of the Author. To 
which is added, 

HOFER, THE TYROLESE. 

By the Author of Claudine, &c., &c. Handsomely bound in 1 volume, 
and illustrated with Engravings. 



THE YOUNG NATURALIST'S RAMBLES 

THROUGH MANY LANDS; 

Containing an Account of the principal Animals and Birds of both the 
Old and New Continents, with Anecdotes. 



D AWNINGS OF GENIUS; 

OR, 

THE EARLY LIVES OF SOME EMINENT PERSONS 
OF THE LAST CENTURY. 
By Anne Pratt, Author of " Flowers and their Associations," &c. 
Embellished with Engravings. 



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